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* -PUBLISHER mm 

GEO. MUNRO. 

17 T0 27 VAN DEWATER ST, 

k NLWYORK. A 














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' WUNRO’S SONS, Munro's Polishing House, 

17 to 27 Vamlewater Street, N. V.. 




Lady Latimer’s Escape, 


AND OTHER STORIES. 


BY 


/ 


CHARLOTTE M. BRA&ME. 

' 



NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 


17 to 27 Vandewater Street. 


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For Sale by all Druggists in two sizes, $1.00 and 50 cents. 


The New York Fashion Bazar Book of the Toilet. 

WITH HANDSOME LITHOGRAPHED COVER. 

PRICE 25 CENTS. 

This is a little book which we can recommend to every lady for the Preserva- 
tion and Increase of Health and Beauty. It contains full directions for all the 
arts and mysteries of personal decoration, and for increasing the natural 
graces of form and expression. All the little affections of the skin, hair, eyes, 
and body, that detract from appearance ’ and happiness, are made the sub- 
jects of precise and excellent recipes. Ladies are instructed how to reduce 
their weight without injury to health and without producing pallor and weak- 
ness. Nothing necessary to a complete toilet book of recipes" and valuable 
advice and information has been overlooked in the compilation of this volume. 

For sale by all newsdealers, or sent on receipt of the price, 25 cents, by the 
publishers. Address 

GFEORGE MTJNRO'S SONS, 

MUNRO'S PUBLISHING HOUSE, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater St., N. Y. 


I took Cold, I took Sick, 

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CHARLOTTE M. J5RAEMES WORKS 


Contained in The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition: 


No. Price. 

19. He* Mother’s Sin 25 

51 Dora Thorne 25 

54 A Broken Wedding-Ring 25 

68 A Queen Amongst 

Women 25 

69 Madolin’s Lover 25 

73 Redeemed by Love; or, 

Love's Victory 25 

76 Wife in Name Only; or, 

A Broken Heart 25 

79 Wedded and Parted 25 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice — 25 
148 T h o r n s and Orange- 

Blossoms 25 

190 Romance of a Black Veil 25 
220 Which Loved Him Best? 25 
237 Repented at Leisure — 25 
249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daugh- 
ter;” or. The Cost of 


Her Love 25 

250 Sunshine and Roses ; or, 

Diana’s Discipline 25 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and 

Fair but False 25 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime; 
or, Vivien’s Atonement 25 

291 Love’s Warfare 25 

292 A Golden Heart 25 

29G A Rose in Thorns 25 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A 

Bride from the Sea — 25 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A 

Bridge of Love 25 

303 Ingledew House, and 

More Bitter than Death 25 

304 In Cupid’s Net 25 


No. Price. 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady 

Gwendoline’s Dream... 25 

306 A Golden. Dawn, and 

Love for a Day 25 

307 Two Kisses, and Like no 

Other Love 25 

308 Beyond Pardon 25 

322 A Woman's Love-Story. 25 

323 A Willful Maid 25 

411 A Bitter Atonement 25 

433 My Sister Kate .25 

459 A Woman’s Temptation. 25 

460 Under a Shadow 25 

465 The Earl’s Atonement. . . 25 

466 Between Two Loves 25 

467 A Struggle for a Ring. . 25 

469 Lady Darner’s Secret 25 

470 Evelyn’s Folly 25 

471 Thrown on the World.., 25 
476 Between Two Sins; or, 

Married in Haste 25 

516 Put Asunder; or. Lady 
Castlemaine’s Divorce. 25 

576 Her Martyrdom . 25 

626 A Fair Mystery; or, The 

Perils of Beauty 2b 

741 The Heiress of Hilldrop; 
oi’, The Romance of a 

Young Girl 25 

745 For Another’s Sin ; or, A 

Struggle for Love 25 

792 Set in Diamonds 25 

821 T h e W o r 1 d Between 

Them... 25 

822 A Passion Flower 25 

853 A True Magdalen 25 


CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME’S WORKS-(Continued), 


Contained in Tlie Seaside Library, Pocket Edition : 


No. Price. 

854 A Woman’s Error ... 25 

922 Marjorie 25 

923 At War With Herself... . 25 

924 Twixt Smile and Tear... 25 

927 Sweet C 3 ’mbeline 25 

928 The False Vow; or, 

Hilda; or, Lady Hut- 
ton’s Ward 25 

928 Lady Hutton’s Ward; or, 
Hilda; or, The False 
Vow 25 

928 Hilda; or. The False 

Vow; or, Lad}’ Hutton’s 
Ward 25 

929 The Belle of Lynn; or, 

The Miller’s Daughter.. 25 
931 Lady Diana’s Pride 25 

948 The Shadow of a Sin. ... 25 

949 Claribel’s Love Story; or, 

Love’s Hidden Depths • . 25 


952 A Woman’s War 25 

953 Hilary’s Folly; or, Her 

Marriage Vow 25 


955 From Gloom to Sunlight; 

or, From Out the Gloom 25 
U58 A Haunted Life; or, Her 

Terrible Sin 25 

969 The Mystery of Colde 
Fell; or, Not Proven... 25 
973 The Squire’s Darling... 25 
975 A Dark Marriage Morn.. 25 

978 Her Second Love 25 

982 The Duke's Secret 25 

985 On Her W T edding Morn, 
and The Mystery of the 
Holly-Tree 25 


No. Price. 

988 The Shattered Idol, and 

Letty Leigh 25 

990 The Earl’s Error, and 

Arnold’s Promise 25 

995 An Unnatural Bondage, 
and That Beautiful 

Lady 25 

1006 His Wife’s Judgment 25 

1008 A Thorn in Her Heart.. 25 

1010 Golden Gates 25 

1012 A Nameless Sin 25 

1014 A Mad Love 25 

1031 Irene’s Vow 25 

1052 Signa’s Sweetheart 25 

1091 A Modern Cinderella 25 

1134 Lord Elesmere’s Wife.. .. 25 
1155 Lured Away; or, The 
Story of a Wedding- 
Ring, and The Heiress 


of Arne 25 

1179 Beauty’s Marriage 25 

1185 A Fiery Ordeal 25 

1195 Dumaresq's Temptation. 25 

1285 Jenny./ 25 

1291 The Star of Love 25 

1328 Lord Lisle’s Daughter. . . 25 
1415 Weaker than a Woman. 25 
1628 Love Works Wonders. . . 25 

2010 Her Only Sin 25 

2011 A Fatal Wedding 25 

2012 A Bright Wedding-Daj\ . 25 

2013 One Against Many j 25 

2014 One False Step 25 

2015 Two Fair Women 25 

2068 Ladj^ Latimer’s Escape, 

and other stories. 2£ 


LADY LATIMER'S ESCAPE. 


CHAPTER I. 

PATE IS AGAINST SOME PEOPLE FROM THE CRADLE TO 
THE GRAVE. 

“ Change is the law of wind and moon and lover — 

And j r et I think, lost Love, had you been true, 

Some golden fruits had ripened for your plucking 
You will not find in gardens that are new.” 

Many years have come and gone in my life since this 
eventful one of which my story tells. My name is Audrey 
Lovel, and I am the eldest daughter of the Reverend 
Archibald Lovel, and Millicent, his wife. The Reverend 
Archibald has been for many years Vicar of St. Hubert's 
Church at King's Lorton. He lives in a beautiful, old- 
fashioned vicarage, just outside the town of King's Lorton, 
a house such as you see in illustrated Christmas annuals, 
with gable ends and great stacks of chimneys, and great 
windows with pleasant seats in the deep bays. Tangles of 
roses and jasmine cover it in the summer; in the winter 
there is a wealth of green holly. A large, old-fashioned 
garden surrounds it, where every kind of tree grows and 
lower blooms. A bright, sunny orchard lies beyond that, 
the gates of which lead into the clover meadow, and at the 
foot of the meadow runs the clear, deep, beautiful river 
Linne, the loveliest river in England, and the great tor- 
ment of my mother's life, for the boys were always coming 
to grief over it, either skating when the ice was not an inch 
thick, or swimming when the current was too strong — 
rowing when the wind was against them — fishing and fall- 
ing head-first into the stream. That river was the one 
blot on my mother's otherwise happy life. 

My father, not being by any means a rich man, was 


6 


LADY LATIMEK’s ESCAPE. 


blessed with the usual large number of children. He was 
heard to say, despairingly, that he should cease to count 
them after the number of seven was reached. 

We were nine in all. Six hearty, healthy, happy, hun- 
gry boys, and three girls. I was the eldest. Then came 
the eldest son, certainly the most terrible boy in the world. 
My mother used to say of him, “ Bob is all a boy/' and 
that means a great deal. Archie, the second, was not 
quite his equal in mischief, but he had every desire to be so. 
Willie, the third, was a quiet, well-behaved boy, who lived 
in continual fear of his two elder brothers. Then came a 
sweet, fair-haired little maiden; it was rest for one’s eyes 
to look upon her. She was called after our mother, Mil- 
licent. Then three more boys, the sole object of whose 
existence seemed to be eating and noise, varied with skir- 
mishes of all kinds, carried on in all places and at all 
times— skirmishes that almost made my hair stand on end. 
Then came the last, sweetest, fairest, and best, a wonder- 
fully fat, lovely baby girl, named Trottie; the roundest, 
prettiest baby ever seen, worshiped by the family, adored 
by the boys. 

“ The boys!” Does any sympathetic reader know what 
that means? If you suddenly hear a tremendous crash 
like the roar of artillery, or a great upheaval like a trop- 
ical earthquake, and you ask in alarm, “ What is it?” the 
inevitable answer is, “ The boys.” If there is a rush up 
and down the staircase, followed by sudden shrieks, un- 
earthly noises, succeeded by silence even more terrible, and 
you ask, “ \\ hat is it?” “ The boys,” Any unexpected 
explosion, any unforeseen accident, any unthought-of hap, 
had but one source, “ the boys.” 

Yet how we loved them, and what fine, manly fellows 
they were! But they were the very torment of our lives. 
How they enjoyed luring that unhappy little maiden, 
Millie, into the most unheard-of situations. The only one 
they held in supreme awe was Baby Trottie, who ruled 
them with a rod of iron. 

A large, happy, healthy family, and at the time this 
story opens I was just eighteen. I had, thanks to my 
father’s insistence, received an excellent education, and 
was now supposed to be helping my mother. 

Being the eldest daughter, I had certain privileges. 1 
had a dear little room of my own, the window of which 


LADY LATIMER J S ESCAPE. 


* 

overlooked the green meadow and the lovely brimming 
river. I had the entry to my father’s library, a privilege 
which “ the boys 99 most virtuously shunned. Altogether 
I loved and enjoyed my life, with its simple duties and 
pleasures. 1 had thought little of love and lovers. The 
boys absorbed all my leisure time — to save them from 
drowning, to keep them from breaking their necks by 
sliding down the great carved balusters, exhorting them 
as much as possible not to climb the very tallest trees in 
search of birds’-nests, and preventing them from throwing 
stones quite close to the windows. 

My father took life very easily — the boys seemed to look 
upon him as a beloved friend and a natural enemy; no 
skirmishes were indulged in in his presence, no practical 
jokes. When they had misbehaved themselves to any 
great extent, they were very wary in turning corners, lest 
he should spring upon them suddenly, and a peculiar shrill 
whistle was the signal for clearing the coast; it meant that 
he was coming, and that summary justice might be ex- 
pected. My father was a well-bred gentleman, and a 
splendid scholar; he spent the greater part of his life in 
writing and reading. His income was a small one, but 
my mother managed it. 

My mother was one of the sweetest and most gracious 
of women, loved by every one, the soul of generosity and 
kindness. She never raised her voice, even to the boys. 
She was essentially a motherly woman, and the boys were 
the pride, the delight, the torment, and joy of her life. 
She was well born, well bred, a lady in every sense of the 
word. She could make puddings and cakes, darn stock- 
ings, and yet in the drawing-room she had all the graces 
and sweet stateliness of an accomplished lady. I may 
mention that the boys’ wardrobe was something fearful to 
behold, but my mother understood it. 

There was no affluence, no luxury in our house; and, 
indeed, there was a difficulty in making both ends meet. 
But we were very happy, very loving, devoted to one 
another. There was no quarreling; a terrific fight among 
the boys did not always mean a quarrel. There was no 
selfishness; there is no such school for learning self-denial 
and self-control as a large family. 

About two miles from the vicarage stood the grandest 
mansion in the county, the residence of Lord Latimer, the 


8 


lady latimer’s escape. 


greatest mail in the county, and it was called Lorton’s 
Cray. It was the wonder of our childish lives.. A mag- 
nificent mansion, with thick, gray, ivy-covered walls. It 
had been built in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and held 
every beauty of the architecture of that period. The 
rooms were all large and lofty, with great windows; the 
floors and staircases were all of polished oak, the ceilings 
painted, the entrance hall a marvel of stained-glass win- 
dows, with a magnificent groined roof. 

Once or twice in our lives we had been allowed to go 
through this house. It produced such an impression on 
the boys that they were silent for some days afterward. 
The picture-gallery ran the whole length of the house, and 
held some priceless paintings. The portraits of the Lati- 
mers for many generations past hung there, with a fine 
collection of modern paintings. 

The drawing-room was a magnificent apartment; we 
held our breath as we stood on the threshold; even Bob 
and Archie collapsed — they were speechless. It was all 
white and gold. There was no color except the rich bloom 
of the rare flowers that stood in the jardinieres; the hang- 
ings were of white velvet and white satin embroidered with 
gold; chairs, couches, lounges the same. From the large 
windows there was a superb view of the square of fount- 
ains and the deep green of the rich foliage beyond. 

There was a spacious banqueting-hall, a cozy dining- 
room, a library that was unequaled for its size, a morning- 
room opening on to a rose garden. The great state 
apartments were in the eastern wing. There were in- 
numerable pretty little rooms, innumerable pretty nooks 
and corners in the old house. 

It was a house full of surprises; where it was least ex- 
pected one would find a large window with comfortable 
seats, a lonely little room, a door opening on to a quaint 
staircase that led to the grounds. Then, all over the place 
there was a perfect wealth of ornaments, the accumulated 
treasures of long generations — and the Latimers had always 
been very wealthy. 

The grounds were magnificent; the fine old trees, the 
beautiful, undulating park, the lovely fairy dells where 
violets and cowslips grew, the matchless terraces, the 
broad marble steps that led from one to the other— it was 
all beautiful. 


lady latimer’s escape. 


9 


When we came from our last visit, my young brothers 
looked at me with contemplative, solemn eyes. 

“ Audrey,” said Bob, “ you will be, 1 think, good-look- 
ing. 1 hope you will remember your brothers, and marry 
well.” 

“ A brother-in-law with a house like that would suit 
me,” said Archie, emphatically. 

“ Of course, as your brothers, we should be offered the 
run of the house,” said Bob. “ In fact, it would doubt- 
less be thrown open to us.” 

How little 1 thought, while they teased me and enjoyed 
themselves over this future brother-in-law — how little I 
dreamed of what was to be! 

Lord Latimer had not been to King’s Lorton within my 
recollection. The house was beautifully kept. There was 
a faithful old housekeeper, Mrs. Heath; an ancient butler, 
who seemed to be part of the place; and plenty of serv- 
ants. Everything was kept in readiness; no matter when 
or how the old lord might return, he would have found 
everything prepared for him at any moment. For some 
years there was no mention made of Lord Latimer’s re- 
turn; all at once we heard that he was coming back, and 
bringing with him a young wife. 

“ A young wife!” cried my mother, when she heard it. 
“ Why, that must be impossible; that must be untrue; he 
is over sixty.” 

“ Yes,” replied my father, incautiously enough, con- 
sidering the boys were all round him; “ but then he is a 
very well-preserved man.” 

And the boys spent the remainder of the day in trying 
to find out what a “ well-preserved man ” was, and then 
making caricatures of him. 


CHAPTER XL 

The news of Lord Latimer’s marriage and return spread 
like wild-fire over the county; nothing else was spoken of. 

“ It will be good for us and good for the poor,” said 
my father. “ Lord Latimer is very generous.” 

But I noticed one thing — my father never spoke of any 
other quality of the earl. He was generous, and he at- 
tended church regularly — two fine qualities. 

Our children were all on the qui vive to see the new lady 


10 


LADY LATIMER'S ESCAPE. 


of Lorton’s Cray. We heard that the old lord had sud- 
denly returned without having given on«e moment’s warn- 
ing, bringing with him his young wife and her lady’s-maid. 
She was beautiful, they said, as an angel, her hair glittered 
like gold, and her face was fair as the dawn of the morn- 
ing. She wore rich dresses of strange texture, and rare 
jewels. Some said she was proud and capricious, others 
that she was most loving and gentle. Every one gave a 
different opinion of her, and she had made a different im- 
pression on every person who had seen her — from which 
fact my father argued that she must be a wonderful 
woifisih. 

Lord Latimer rode over to see my father the day after 
his arrival, an act of attention which delighted him. He 
behaved most generously — he gave him a check for the 
poor, a check for the church; he promised to assist with 
some alterations on which my father had set his heart; he 
inquired after the number of children at the vicarage, 
smiled when he heard there were six boys^ he was — and 
we all liked himliest for that — most amiable and agreeable 
to our dear mother; he spoke of his wife, said the journey 
had tired her, and that she was not quite well — but there 
was a curious tightening of the lips as he spoke of her. 

The next day was Sunday, and we were all interested, 
knowing that we should see Lady Latimer at church. I 
need not say that our family pew was a sight to be remem- 
bered. Nine healthy, happy faces ornamented it. I am 
sorry to add that the conduct of the inmates was not always 
above suspicion. If Bob looked particularly devout, or 
Archie collected and calm, I knew that a dire catastrophe 
impended. It is not in boys’ human nature to remain 
quiet for more than ten minutes, if for so long. 

I am ashamed to confess with what longing of impatience 
we awaited the coming of the Lorton’s Cray party to 
church. Bob, who excelled himself in wickedness that 
morning, was busy, I could see, making a caricature on 
one of the side leaves of his prayer-book. Archie was 
making a desperate effort to become possessed of it. Mil- 
lie, seated between the two belligerents, had a terrible time 
of it, and looked ready to cry. 

1 had just restored order when they came. I saw some- 
thing that looked to me like a vision of grace and loveli- 
ness floating up the aisle of the old church. I saw rich 


LADY LATIM Eft'S ESCAPE. 


11 


silk and velvet sweep the ground, priceless lace fall in per- 
fumed folds, jewels gleam here and there; in the breath- 
less silence the soft frou-frou of the rich silk was distinctly 
heard. 

1 did not see her face until she was seated in the pew 
and all the excitement incWent upon their coming was 
over; then I looked at her. 1 loved her that first mo- 
ment; I have loved her ever since, and I shall love her 
until I die. 

In what words can 1 tell the dainty, marvelous beauty 
of that fair young face, the perfection of its features, the 
loveliness of its coloring? It was the perfection of fair 
and brilliant beauty. 

A low, white brow, round which golden rings of hair 
clustered, shining rings of rich, rare gold; delicate, level 
brows, dark, beautiful eyes, a mouth that seemed at once 
all good and all sweetness, a delicate chin, perfectly mold- 
ed — a face that, once seen, could never be forgotten. 

She looked to me beautiful as the pictured angels in the 
old gallery at Lorton's Cray. Yet it was the face of a 
woman, not of an angel; and when 1 came to look more 
deeply into it, I saw uneasiness, languor, pride; at times 
unutterable fatigue, unutterable scorn, then something like 
despair; the light died from the proud eyes, and the lines 
deepened round the beautiful lips. 

All at once I started with amazement; for she was look- 
ing at our pew, and 1 saw a smile pass like a sunbeam over 
her face. I looked at the long row of children; they were 
all, outwardly, at least, decently behaved. One or two of 
them had their eyes and mouths opened very wide, and 
were fascinated by Lady Latimer. Then her eyes met 
mine, and I saw in them a tender light, a beautiful gleam. 
The old lord, looking very stern and gray, sat by her side 
— May and December, indeed. 

More than once I. caught the beautiful eves fixed on 
mine. I can not tell how it was, but a certain conviction 
came to me that she was not happy. Despite her grand 
title of Lady Latimer, of Lorton's Cray; despite her 
beauty, which was greater than I had ever seen; despite 
her rich dress and her jewels and the magnificence that 
surrounded her, she was not happy. 1 can not tell how it 
happened, but it seemed to me her eyes were telling me 


12 


LADY LATIMER'S ESCAPE. 


so, and that it was a secret known only to herself and me; 
but that must have been fancy. 

I was like a bird fascinated. I could not look away 
from her. I am very much afraid that I thought of noth- 
ing else. 1 saw her watch our family procession down the 
-church; always eccentric, it *$as this time more peculiar 
than ever, owing to the fact that Bob, whose expression of 
countenance was perfectly angelic, had pinned Millie's 
cape to Archie's jacket, and the wildest confusion ensued. 
We had reached home before it ended. Impartial justice 
was administered later on. 

The next day Lord and Lady Latimer called. The army 
of boys had been sent to King's Lorton, under the pretext 
of purchasing a new cricket bat. Our pretty vicarage 
looked its best. It was the month of May, and the lilacs 
were all in bloom; the beautiful syringa-trees were all in 
flower; the house was a perfect bower; the birds were sing- 
ing in the trees all round it. 

I shall never forget how the fair, queenly presence of 
that beautiful woman brightened even our cheerful rooms. 
She was in the drawing-room when 1 went in, talking to 
my mother. Lord Latimer was discussing a late edition 
of Virgil with my father. Lady Latimer held out her 
hand to me, with a smile so bright and beautiful it almost 
dazzled me. 

“ 1 saw you in church yesterday. Miss Lovel," she said, 
“ and I have come to ask you if you will be my friends." 

If I could describe her grace, her sweetness! If she had 
said to me, “ Audrey Lovel, from this moment you be- 
come my bond-slave, and attach yourself to me for life," 
I should have done so. I loved her after the fashion of 
enthusiastic young girls, with a full and perfect love. 

“ I have been telling Mrs. Lovel," she continued, “ how 
much your face attracted me. I wanted to see you yester- 
day." 

She had a wonderfully sweet voice, low and caressing. 
She went on: 

“ And those delightful boys of yours, how I enjoyed see- 
ing them! I am sorry they are out. Mrs. Lovel, you 
must let me have them all over at Lorton 's Cray." 

My mother smiled. 

“ I am afraid. Lady Latimer," she said, “ you would 
hardly survive it. A French revolution or a Cuban insur- 


lady latimer’s escape. 


13 


rection is bad enough; but the boys visiting together is 
something beyond imagination even;” and the dear, gentle 
mother smiled as she thought of it. 

“ Nevertheless,” said Lady Latimer, “ 1 shall hope to 
see them. It is very lonely at Lorton’s Cray.” 

And I saw, plainly as I heard the words, a fine, quick 
gleam of scorn that lighted for half a minute on her hus- 
band’s face, and then was gone. But he turned quickly 
to her. 

“ Are you dull and lonely, Grace?” he asked, “lam 
sorry. You will soon have plenty of visitors.” 

For a few minutes he was moody and silent, then he 
turned suddenly to my mother. 

“ Mrs. Lovel,” he said, “ it is in your power to do me 
the greatest favor. You hear that Lady Latimer com- 
plains of feeling dull; will you allow Miss Lovel to pay us 
a visit? In fact, if it will be convenient to you, to go back 
with us now? It will be a pleasure to Lady Latimer and 
myself. ” 

The beautiful face brightened, the gracious hand was 
held out to me. 

“ How kind! Will you come. Miss Lovel? I should be 
so .delighted.” 

If she had said, “ Will you come to Siberia with me?” I 
should have gone. Her fair, queenly beauty, the mystery 
in the dark eyes, and her gracious, winning manner had 
laid me under a spell. 

“ It will be a great pleasure to me. Lady Latimer,” I 
answered. 

“ And you will tell me all about the boys?” she said. 

“ All about the boys would mean a long biography of 
each one,” I answered; “ but 1 will give you the leading 
points in each career.” 

“ That will do,” she rejoined, laughingly. “I am so 
glad you will come. Miss Lovel.” 

Then 1 went to my own room to make some prepara- 
tions, and my mother followed me. 

“ It seems" a strange thing, mamma,” I said, “ for Lady 
Latimer to want me, and to wish to take me home with 
her now. ” 

“ 1 do not think it strange, Audrey,” she said, “ not at 
all. Evidently, Lady Latimer is very dull and very lone- 
ly, and Lord Latimer is anxious that she should have a 


14 


lady latimer's escape. 


companion. I think, my dear," added my beautiful 
mother, with a gentle sigh, “ that it is an excellent thing 
for you. It will bring you into good society; indeed, J 
think it is most providential for us all. Lady Latimer has 
evidently taken a fancy to you. It will be good for the 
boys, too." 

Now, anything for the good of the boys was as irresist- 
ible to me as to my mother, and a glorious vision of un- 
limited toys and fruit came before our eyes. 

“1 should think/’ said my mother, “ that Lady Lati- 
mer is about your age, Audrey; she does not look one day 
older." 

“ And her husband more than sixty!" I cried. “ It 
seems very unnatural, mamma." 

“ Such marriages are often made in high life," said my 
mother. She bent down and kissed me. “I am glad," 
she said, " that we do not belong to what is called high 
life. 1 should not like you, my Audrey, to marry in that 
fashion. I 'wonder how long you will stay at Lorton’s 
Cray?" 

“ Two or three days, most probably," I replied. 
“ Mamma, do you know that the first moment I saw Lady 
Latimer — the first moment that her eyes looked into mine, 
1 knew that we should be something to each other? Her 
eyes said so plainly." 

“ Fancy, my dear," answered my gentle mother. 

1 knew it was not fancy, but truth. 


CHAPTER III. 

My few preparations were soon made. Lord Latimer 
was profuse in his thanks to my parents. It was so good, 
so kind, so generous of them to spare me; he was so grate- 
ful. It was such a sad thing for Lady Latimer to feel her- 
self so dull — so unfortunate; but in my cheerful society no 
doubt she would rally. His words sounded kindly, but 
there was an evil look in the old lord’s eyes as he uttered 
them. 

Then' we all three drove away together, and the wonder, 
the dream of my life, came true — I was at home at Lor- 
ton’s Cray. “ What would the boys say?" That was my 
first thought as we drove along, and I longed to hear the 
remarks and comments that would be made in the august 


LADY LATIMER’S ESCAPE. 


15 


assembly. Then my companions attracted all my atten- 
tion. I began to see why Lady Latimer was dull and 
lonely. The old lord was by no means a pleasant, amus- 
ing, or even agreeable companion; he was silent and satur- 
nine. If he expressed an idea, it was either false, mean, 
or ignoble; if he uttered a sentiment, it was either sordid 
or cynical; if he made a remark, it was sure to jar in some 
way or other on one. He talked to me during the greater 
part of the drive; he could not forget that Lady Latimer 
had complained of feeling dull; he seemed to resent it as 
an insult to himself; he reverted to it continually. 

If 1 had been Lady Latimer, I should have lost both 
temper and patience; but when she saw the turn things 
were taking, she leaned back in the carriage and said 
nothing. 

What weariness crept over that beautiful face! What 
sadness came into the proud eyes! The bright May sun- 
shine, the hawthorn on the hedges, the flowering.limes, the 
springing grasses brought no smiles to her lips. 1 was 
almost dazed with delight to drive on that lovely spring 
day through that delicious, odorous air. To see the depths 
of the blue sky, the light of the sun, the bloom of the 
spring flowers; to hear the lark and the thrush, the bleat- 
ing of the little lambs in the meadows— had filled me with 
delight that was almost intoxicating; my heart and soul, 
my whole nature, seemed to expand. But on the beauti- 
ful face opposite to me there was no smile. I do not re- 
member that husband and wife exchanged one word. 
Verily, May and December, eighteen and sixty, could 
never agree. 

When the carriage stopped before the great entrance- 
hall door, and I stood on the threshold of Lorton’s Cray, 
a curious sensation came over me— a foreboding, but such 
a mixture of sorrow and joy I could not understand it. I 
felt the shadow of coming evil and the brightness of com- 
ing joy. The^emotion was so strong that I felt all the 
color die from my face and lips; my heart beat, my hands 
trembled. It seemed to me that I had gone quite suddenly 
into another world. Lord Latimer gave me a very kind 
but stately welcome. 

“You look tired, Miss Lovel,” he said; “ you had bet- 
ter have a glass of wine.” 

“ Come with me to my room. Miss Lovel,” said Lady 


16 


lady latimer’s escape. 


Latimer, not seeming to heed her husband’s words; and 
we went up the grand staircase together. 

Ah, what luxury! what magnificence! what splendor! 
I was struck by the great white marble statues, holding 
aloft richly colored lamps, masses of crimson flowers at 
their feet. She swept up the grand staircase, looking 
neither to the right nor the left, and hastened to her room. 

“ That’s a relief,” she cried, as she sunk into the depths 
of an easy-chair; “ a most blessed and unmitigated relief.” 

“ What is?” I asked, wonderingly. 

Her face crimsoned. 

“To get in-doors,” she answered, quickly; but 1 felt 
sure that she did not mean that when she spoke first. 

Then Lady Latimer rose from her chair. She took off 
her hat and mantle. 

“ I prefer dressing and undressing myself to having a 
maid always about me,” she said. “ Shall I ring for Hil- 
ton for yo.u?” 

“ I have never had a maid in my life,” I answered, 
thinking of the toilets at home and the struggle to get 
through them. 

“ That is right,” she said, heartily. 

I looked round that magnificent sleeping-room. The 
hangings were all of blue velvet and white silk; the carpet 
of light-blue velvet pile with white flowers; a few exquisite 
pictures adorned the walls; ornaments of every description 
abounded; the toilet-tables seemed to me one blaze of sil- 
ver and richly cut glass; one door opened into a bath- 
room superbly fitted; another into a beautiful boudoir, all 
blue and white. A balcony ran along the windows, filled 
with the loveliest, rarest, and most fragrant flowers. 
Everything that money could purchase or art suggest was 
in those beautiful rooms. I thought to myself, as I looked 
around, “ How enviably happy the owner of all this mag- 
nificence must be!” 1 was soon to find out that all the 
magnificence in the world could not confer happiness. 

“ Come into the boudoir,” said Lady Latimer. - “ How 
pleasant it is to have some one to talk to and laugh with. 
There are days when my very nature seems starved for 
want of laughter.” 

“ And we have so much of it,” I said, involuntarily. 

“ Yes. When I saw that row of smiling, happy faces at 
church, my heart went out to them; the tears came into 


lady latimer's escape. 


17 


my eyes, and 1 longed to be among them." She drew me 
to herself in a half-caressing fashion inexpressibly graceful. 
“ I am so glad that you came back with me. Miss Lovel. 
1 can never tell you how I felt when I saw you. I am sure 
that, in some strange manner or other, you are going to 
make part of my life, or to be involved in it in some way." 

“ I had the same feeling," I replied, wonderingly. 

“ Then," said Lady Latimer, “it is true, and there is 
something in it. 1 am grateful, for 1 was very lonely, and 
needed a friend. You have such a frank face, so noble 
and true. You are dark and beautiful. I like dark, 
beautiful faces. You are sympathetic; I need sympathy. 
We shall be good friends, Miss Lovel." 

“ 1 hope so," was my answer. I knew that in my heart 
1 loved her well enough to be her constant friend all my 
life. Then she threw off the sadness and weariness that 
lay over her like a shadow. 

“ Miss Lovel," she said, “ have you been over the 
house?" 

“Two years ago," I answered; and I told her of the 
great awe that had fallen over the boys at the sight of all 
the magnificence. Laughingly I told her also how they 
had implored me to marry some one with a house just like 
this, for their special use and benefit. 

“ There is many a truth spoken in jest," said Lady 
Latimer; “ but never do that, my dear; let nothing ever 
tempt you to marry for the sake of a grand house, or 
money, or position. It is the most terrible mistake that a 
woman ever makes. Sooner die than do that." 

“ I never shall. Lady Latimer," I replied; then, think- 
ing of home, I added: “ 1 should never have a chance, no 
matter even if I might desire it." Our only visitors were 
the curate and the doctor. 

“ You might be tempted some day," she said. “ You 
are beautiful enough, and you have a charm all your own. 
Remember my words: rather die a hundred deaths than 
make a miserable marriage. Now come and let us see the 
house." 

We went over that vast mansion together, and the more 
1 saw of Lady Latimer, the more I loved her. When we 
had been together some time, I forgot that she was any- 
thing but a girl like myself. 

We Lovels had always been famous for two things; one 


18 


lady latimer’s escape. 


was a light-hearted love of laughter, the other was the 
keenness with which we saw the humorous side of every- 
thing. We may have been deficient in some finer qualities, 
but we certainly made up for it in these. We saw subjects 
for fun and laughter where other people were solemn as 
judges. It was this particular quality which made the 
vicarage the very home of merriment, and which made us 
popular wherever we went. 

When Lady Latimer and I had been together for a few 
hours, she laughed heartily and naturally as I did. We 
went over the whole house, and its vast extent, its mag- 
nificence, completely astonished me. It was like unravel- 
ing a fairy tale; but I saw that this alone would not make 
any one happy. 

I remember that in the library there was a very beauti- 
ful picture; it was of a young man, quite young, not more 
than twenty years of age, wearing the picturesque uniform 
Of the Life Guards. A face that attracted and charmed 
me, for it had the dark, chivalrous beauty of the knights 
of old — dark, luminous eyes full of fire and courage, dark, 
level brows that nearly met, a proud, firm mouth half 
covered with a dark mustache, such a face as one sees in 
the pictures of Spanish knights and princes, yet with a 
gleam of human tenderness in the eyes that arrested you, 
and made you stand still before it. 

“ Who is that. Lady Latimer?” I asked. “ Is it the 
portrait of a person living or — ” 

But 1 could not utter the word “ dead ” in conjunction 
with that beautiful, noble face. 

“ Living,” she replied. “ Now, Audrey, who is that? 
Try to guess.” 

I could not, for I knew nothing of the Latimers, except 
that they existed, and 1 told her so. She was looking at 
the picture with smiling eyes. 

“ That is Lionel Fleming,” she said, “ heir at law and 
next of kin to Lord Latimer . 99 

I knew as little of the laws of entail as I did of Greek. 
I looked up at her, quite puzzled. 

“ He is not Lord Latimer’s son,” I said. 

She laughed. 

“No; he is but very distantly related to him,” she 
answered; “but, for all that, when the present Lord Lati- 


LADY LATIMER’S ESCAPE. 


1 § 

mer dies, Lionel Fleming will succeed him, and become 
Baron Latimer, of Lorton’s Cra}'.” 

“ Do you know him well?” 1 asked. 

“ No. 1 have only seen him once or twice. He is 
quartered at Windsor. He will be here in September for 
the shooting. You seem to admire his face, Audrey.” 

“ I do,” was my almost breathless reply. “ I have seen 
nothing so beautiful in my life.” 

“He is the most popular man in London,” she said; 
“ and certainly one of the best matches in England. You 
can form no idea how he is courted and flattered.” 

“ And spoiled?” I interrupted. 

“ No, not spoiled,” she answered. “ He is as noble in 
character as he is beautiful in face.” 

“ A wonder anfong men,” 1 commented. 

“ He is a wonder,” she answered, dreamily, “ as men 
go.” 

Wherever I went during the remainder of that day I saw 
that face, the name sounded ever in my ears. 

“ Lionel Fleming.” I wondered if I should ever see the 
original. He was Coming in September, and doubtless we 
should be invited to Lorton’s Cray. Then I took myself 
to task for wasting time in thinking of a picture and a 
name. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Dinner that evening was a stately, ceremonious affair, 
unutterably solemn and dull. The earl presided in great 
state. Everything was Of the rarest and best, but dull and 
cheerless. Lady Latimer’s eyes looked at me as though 
she would say, “ Let us make haste and get it over, and 
get away again.” I could imagine what those dinners 
were like when she was quite alone with the old lord. 

She was quite a different Lady Latimer then. It seemed 
as though all the brightness and the sparkle died out of 
her. She looked bored by everything. She eat little and 
drank le&. She looked unutterably wearied. Very few 
words were spoken, and it was a great relief when we 
withdrew. We went to the drawing-room, where the 
lamps were lighted, but not turned on full. 

“ Come, Audrey, to the terrace,” she said, “ and let us 


20 lady latimek's escape. 

see the May moon shining over the trees and the fount- 
ains.” 

As we stood watching it, she suddenly caught my hand, 
and with a passionate gesture I shall never forget, she 
cried : 

“ Oh, Audrey, Audrey! is life worth living, after all?” 

I was very much puzzled by Lady Latimer. It seemed 
to me that having so much money, living in such a mag- 
nificent house, the fact of being surrounded by every pos- 
sible luxury under the sun, ought to have made her at 
least content. If she had passed through those magnificent 
rooms with a smile or a snatch of song on her lips, or the 
light of a glad content in her eyes, I could have under- 
stood. She seemed to have two moods. When she was 
with the old lord, silence, weariness, with a certain fino 
scorn of all and everything; when she was with me, cf 
simple, almost child-like merriment. When it was possi- 
ble for her to escape the stately, gloomy presence of her 
husband, she did so, and then it was to hurry to me and 
beg that I would go out with her; and when we were in 
the woods together she forgot that she was Lady Latimer, 
and ran after butterflies, gathered wild flowers like any 
simple country girl. We spent hours in those bonny Lor- 
ton Woods. They were like fairy-land. The boughs of 
the trees met overhead, so that the sunlight which fell on 
the green grass below became filtered, as it were, through 
the leaves; a beautiful brook ran through the wood, sing- 
ing, rippling, clear as crystal, so that one could see the 
pebbles plainly in its bed; blue forget-me-nots grew on 
its banks, and the green grass was wet with the shining 
water. The trees in Lorton Woods were strong and tall, 
with great spreading boughs, and the birds had built nests 
in them. Surely no other wood or forest ever held so 
many birds, and surely no other birds ever sung so sweetly 
as these. Every kind of fern and of wild flower grew 
there; great sheaves of bluebells, of wild strawberry blos- 
soms, and of the lovely, delicate meadow-sweet. It was 
a wood full of hidden beauties; we were always finding 
fresh nooks and corners, each one more beautiful # than the 
other. Lady Latimer loved it. We sat for hours together 
by the side of the brook, talking on every possible subject 
except one. We never spoke of herself. I had to go over 
and over again all the details and routine of our home life. 


lady latimer’s escape. 


21 


Lady Latimer loved to hear of my father’s study and his 
sermons, and how he visited the sick, and how nervous he 
was if a baby cried while he was baptizing it; how he 
cheered the old people, and how kind he was to the young 
men and maidens of his parish; how he loved the boys, 
and secretly enjoyed the fun of them. She liked to hear 
about my mother. 

“I should think, Audrey,^ she said to me one day, 
“ from your description, that your mother must be that 
wonder of wonders — a perfect woman. She is a saint in 
church, a help in the study, a manager iri the kitchen, a 
mother in the nursery, and a lady in the drawing-room.” 

“ She is all that,” I answered, laughing, although my 
eyes were full of tears; that was my mother’s portrait to 
perfection. 

Lady Latimer liked best of all to hear about the boys; 
their adventures, their escapades, their desperate encount- 
ers, their daily deadly peril of life and limb, amused her 
more than anything else. She would talk to me of my- 
self, and what would be my probable fate. 1 could see 
nothing before me but a few more quiet years at home, 
then probably a marriage with a High Church curate; but 
Lady Latimer would laugh and assure me there was some- 
thing more than that in store for me. 

“We shall see what those dark eyes and that dark hair 
of yours will do for you, Audrey,” she would say. For 
my own part, 1 could not imagine why Nature had made 
me, the oldest of nine children and the daughter of a 
country vicar, beautiful. 

During all those long hours, when life at the vicarage 
was dissected and laid bare, no word was ever spoken of 
herself or of Lord Latimer. The longer 1 remained with 
them, the greater grew my wonder that she had married 
him. He was so old, so dull, so gloomy; she so young, so 
fair, so gay. But no allusion to her marriage ever crossed 
her lips or mine. I enjoyed my visit, 1 loved Lady Lati- 
mer; everything and every one was pleasant and agreeable 
to me, and when the time of my visit ended, 1 returned to 
the vicarage. I should like to describe that first night of 
mine at home — how the boys surrounded me, and would 
insist upon every detail, the most absorbing of which were 
what 1 had to eat and to drink. Their eyes opened widely 
at the history of one of the dinners at Lorton’s Cray. 


21 


LADY LATIMER’S ESCAPE* 


Charley, who was always suspected of being a gourmand, 
cried ecstatically, “ I wish I had been there !” The result 
of our conversation was an anxious inquiry as to whether 
Lady Latimer meant to invite them, and when I told them 
that she had even fixed on the day, their delight knew no 
bounds. 

I was not much surprised, a few days afterward, to find 
Lord Latimer in my fathers study, and he had ooine with 
a request, a petition, a prayer, from Lady Latimer. It 
was that I might go and live with her entirely. She found 
herself lonely, and when she was lonely, she was not well. 
There was a grave consultation between my parents. My 
mother said how useful I was to her, and how much she 
should miss my help among the children and in the house. 
My father said that he had never anticipated any of his 
daughters leaving home, but the stipend offered, a hundred 
and fifty pounds per annum, was a large one, and would 
be a great help with the number of children and the small 
income. My dear mother argued that I should be able to 
spare at least one hundred for the use of those at home. 

“ And that,” she added, with a look of wistful tender- 
ness at my father, “ that will enable you, dear, to have a 
glass of wine when you feel so tired.” 

At last it was decided. My father held out the longest; 
his pride was touched at the thought that one of his daugh- 
ters should have to leave home. But even that yielded be- 
fore the thought of the comfort that that additional hun- 
dred per annum would give him. 

There was dismay and dread among the boys; there was, 
in fact, a revolution. Why should Audrey, their own 
sister and special friend, go away from them to live with 
Lady Latimer? It was not fair, and they decided in their 
own especial parlance “ not to stand it.” Their sister be- 
longed to them, and not to Lady Latimer. They wished 
now that she had never come to Lorton’s Cray. They 
wanted Audrey for themselves. The dear, gentle mother 
listened in patience. Then she explained to them the 
great advantages that must be derived from another hun- 
dred per annum, and what a nice thing it would be for me 
to be always well dressed, and meeting people who moved 
in high society. 

“ We are high society, mother,” said Bob, reproach- 
fully. “ There is no one better than you and my father.” 


LADY LATIMEli’S ESCAPE. 


23 


My mother kissed him in her quiet, gentle fashion. 

“ It will be best, my dear,” she said. And then the 
boys knew that their plan of action had failed. 

There was only one comfort for them: living at Lor- 
ton’s Cray, forming one of that most august household, 1 
should be able to obtain some indulgences for them, such 
as an occasional ride or drive; and afterward both Lord and 
Lady Latimer proved very kind in this respect. They 
were kind altogether; great hampers of game and fruit 
went from the hall to the vicarage; great parcels of toys 
came for the boys, but the privilege of riding was the one 
they valued most. 

So it came about that 1 was installed at Lorton’s Cray 
as companion to its mistress, with a salary of one hundred 
and fifty per annum, and a nice room of my own. I 
thought myself the most fortunate of girls. 

And now I may come to the heart of my story. 1 had 
left the simple, happy home of my youth. I was in a new 
world, a new sphere of life. 1 must add this one remark 
while I ain speaking of myself: I was just eighteen, but, 
like many eldest daughters o^ large families* I was much 
older than my years. 1 had, it seemed to me, passed 
through the experience of a life-time* and I believe most 
eldest daughters have the same feeling. 

From the minute 1 entered the house until the strange 
events happened that close my story. Lady Latimer clung 
to me with wonderful love. She seemed to rely upon me, 
to trust me. She never liked to have me out of her sight 
No sister ever cared for another as she did for me. 

I remember one bright J une morning she was standing 
on the lawn feeding some tame white doves. The sun- 
light lay on her golden hair, on her white dress* and the 
cluster of roses at her throat; a picture fair as the day it- 
self. There was a dreamy sadness on her exquisite face. 
She left the pretty birds, and stood looking over the square 
of fountains. The beautiful, silvery spray rose high in the 
air. 

I went up to her. Her eyes wore a dreamy, far-off look 
that 1 have never seen in any other face. 

“ How fair it is!” she said. “ Do you know, Audrey, 
the one dream of my life, when I was a child, was to live 
somewhere near a river, or great fountain, or the sea. My 
home ” — it was the first time she had ever mentioned it to 


24 : 


LADY LATIMER'S ESCAPE. 


me — “ my home was in the Midlands, the green heart of 
the land, and I longed to live near water all my life. If 
there is one thing in this world I love more than another, 
it is that — the sound of falling water. 1 think it is the 
sweetest and most musical of all sounds." We stood side 
by side for some minutes, watching the falling spray. 
Suddenly she raised her beautiful face to mine. “ Au- 
drey," she said, “ is life worth living? 1 can not make it 
out. There are times when it seems to me full of interest; 
and again, I wonder that people care to live. Do you 
know what has occurred to me this morning?" 

“ No," I answered, for I could not follow her thoughts. 

“Iam quite sure," she continued, “ that I have missed 
something in my life. 1 can not tell what it is. I have 
missed something that others have; what can it be? It ir> 
the want of it, the desire of it, the longing for it, that op- 
presses me." 

I knew what the thing she missed in her life was. It 
was love — but I did not say so to her. 

“ It seems to me," she continued, “ that even the birds, 
and the flowers, and the butterflies have this something 
which 1 miss. " 

And I knew that was true. The birds loved one another, 
and were happy in their leafy nests, the trees loved the 
flowers, the butterflies loved the sweet white lilies, in whose 
deep white cups they lingered. 

That was the secret of what was amiss in her life — it 
lacked love. She had money, rank, title; she was mistress 
of one of the finest mansions in England; she had jewels 
fit for a queen ; she had dresses and costly laces, and every- 
thing that a woman's heart could wish or desire; but she 
had not love, and without it life is like the Dead Sea fruit, 
fair without and bitter within, and the time had come 
when she had found it to be so. 

The birds sung to one another, the butterflies kissed the 
sweet roses, the bees clung to the sweet honey-flowers; but 
she, in the springtide of her youth and beauty, had cut 
herself adrift from love; for how could smiling May love 
grim December, and how could sweet eighteen love grim 
and somber sixty? 


ladV Latimer's escape. 


25 


CHAPTER V. 

Lady Latimer was very attentive to her husband; she 
never omitted any of the duties that he expected from her; 
she answered his letters; she saw that all his papers were 
cut and prepared for him to read; she was solicitous if he 
seemed ill; she seldom retorted when he was impatient or 
angry, which happened very frequently; but she never 
used any loving words to him, and would sooner have 
thought of flying than of kissing him. They were not 
even on such affectionate terms as father and daughter, or 
uncle and niece, and I soon saw it was want of interest in 
her life — want of love — that made her sad and thoughtful, 
tired and wearied, when she ought to have been blithe and 

gay* 

It so happened that among the guests staying that July 
at Lorton's Cray were Lord and Lady Felton, two young 
people lately married, and very much in love with each 
other still. Lord Felton was deeply in love with his pretty 
wife; and it was pleasant to see his devotion to her, and 
her smiling, blushing acceptance of it. I saw that Lady 
Latimer watched these two incessantly; I saw even the 
color of her face change when Lord Felton took his wife 
for a moonlight stroll, when he brought her flowers, when 
he spoke to her in a caressing tone of voice, when he looked 
at her as though he thought her the loveliest woman in 
the world; then Lady Latimer would grow pale and sigh, 
and the shadow of great weariness would come over her 
.face, and the shadow in her eyes would tell that something 
was missing in her life. 

One morning — a lovely July morning — when to live and 
to breathe was a luxury in itself, the whole party had gone 
out together to look at some wonderful Gloire de Dijon 
roses; they were roses brought to the very highest point of 
perfection. I remember the groups round the tree discuss- 
ing them. Lord Felton gathered one and gave it to his 
wife. 

“ The sweetest rose to the sweetest wife," he whispered; 
but Lady Latimer and I both heard him. 

I saw how suddenly she grew serious and lost her smiles, 


26 


lahy latimer's escape. 


and stood for some minutes in thoughtful silence, then 
drew my arm in hers, and we walked away together. 

“ Audrey/' she said, “ what a strange thing it must be 
for a husband to be in love with his wife like Lord Felton 
is! How strange, but how beautiful! Fancy living 
always with some one who loves you so well, who cares 
whether you are tired or not, whether you are happy or 
not, whether you are too cold or too warm; with some one 
who gives j r ou sweet words and sweet flowers, who praises 
you, and kisses you, and can not live without you. How 
beautiful!" 

“ All husbands love their wives, do they not?" I asked, 
secure in my superior knowledge. 

“No. Mine does not love me," she answered, quickly. 

“ 1 do not agree with you," I said. “ Your husband 
must have loved you, or he would not have married you — 
he did not marry 3'ou for money; it must have been for 
love." 

“ But he never does anything of that kind. He has 
given me diamonds and pearls enough for a queen, but he 
never gave me a rose or whispered loving words to me. 
I do not know that I should be pleased if he did. I do 
not believe that Lord Felton ever forgets his wife for one 
moment; he is like her shadow/' 

I answered that it was impossible to expect from an old 
man like Lord Latimer the same attention and devotion as 
from a young one. 

“If Lord Latimer were to behave as Lord Felton 
does," I added, “ it would be as absurd as Cupid wearing 
a wig/' 

I repented the words the moment I had uttered them. 

She smiled then, but she stood silent for a few minutes. 

“ Audrey," she said, suddenly, “ I should have been 
much happier with a young husband — one who would have 
laughed, and talked, and sung with me, who would have 
given me flowers and kissed me. Do you not think so?" 

“ Yes," I answered, most decidedly; “ but it is too late 
now to think of that." 

“ I know it is. It is very sad, after all," she continued, 
dreamity, “ to have a husband so old and tired of life that 
he has forgotten all about love, and forgotten what it is 
like to be young, and forgotten what youth wants and de- 
sires." 


lady latimer's escape. 


27 


“ It is sad," 1 answered. “ But, Lady Latimer, did yon 
marry for love?" 

I knew before 1 asked the question that it was not pos- 
sible. She looked at me with the utmost surprise. 

“ 1?” she said. “ Oh, no, Audrey, 1 do not know that 
the word love was mentioned over my marriage at all. " 

“ Then," I said, “ you should not expect to receive 
that which you do not give." 

She thought over the words for a few minutes, then she 
said : 

“ No, you are right, Audrey; but you must not think 
that I am complaining. I have not thought much about 
the matter, but since I have known Lord Felton I have 
thought to myself how very much better it is to have a 
young husband who loves you, than an old one who does 
not." 

And I knew in my heart it was a great pity that she had 
found that out. 

“ 1 had never intended to speak of my marriage to any 
one," she said; “ but I must tell you, Audrey; then you 
will understand; for I begin — ah, me! — 1 begin to under- 
stand what it is that I have missed in life. I have missed 
that which Lady Felton has found. I will tell you all 
about my marriage, Audrey," she continued. “ I am a 
stranger here, and I came among you as Lady Latimer, of 
Lorton's Cray. No one knows who I am, or anything 
about me; most people suppose that 1 belong to some great 
family. My dear Audrey, I am a natural product of these 
troubled times. 1 am the daughter of a ruined gentleman 
farmer. Would you have guessed that?" 

“ I should never have guessed the word ruin to be con- 
nected with you in any way," I answered. 

She laughed. 

“It is true," she continued. “When I was a little 
girl, my father — Heaven bless him! — was considered a rich 
man. He rented a large farm called Fernhills, and his 
landlord was my husband. Lord Latimer. 

“ Time was when Fernhills was a small gold mine, when 
the fields were filled with golden grain, and the cattle were 
the finest in the county, when everything prospered, and 
my father was reckoned a rich man. He hunted and rode; 
he joined in all the sports; he was considered one of the 
most generous and hospitable men in it. 


LADY LATIMER’S ESCAPE. 


28 


“ My mother died when I was very little, and my 
father’s sister, Rose Clifford, kept house for us. Fernhills 
was a large, old-fashioned, comfortable house. We lived 
well; my father gave good dinners; my aunt Rose was on 
visiting terms with all the ladies in the tieighborhood. We 
had a pretty little carriage and ponies. You know what 
kind of home it was, Audrey — no luxuries, no magnifi- 
cence, but the ideal of warmth, comfort, and hospitality. 
Lord Latimer was our landlord; he owns almost half the 
county of Daleshire. He has a large mansion there, called 
Hillside Towers, but he seldom or never goes there. He 
owns hundreds of acres of land, and it is all let out in 
farms. Our farm, Fernhills, was by far the largest and 
best, and my father was on the way to moderate fortune, 
when all at once the bad seasons began. The floods came 
down and the meadows were flooded with water, the crops 
failed, the cattle died of disease. All my father’s savings 
had to be spent, and when they were gone he fell into 
debt. The rent of the farm was enormous, and the time 
came when he was called upon to pay it, with all arrears. 
Of course he could not comply. Bare, black, utter ruin 
stared him in the face. He was in despair; there seemed 
to be no help, no hope; everything must be sold, the dear 
old home broken up, and the world begun afresh — not a 
very bright prospect. 1 could not tell you my father’s 
grief. In those few days he grew thin and pale, the very 
ghost of his old kindly, genial self. It was pitiful to hear 
him. Tama ruined man,’ he would say to me. ‘ It is 
the forces of heaven and not of earth that are arrayed 
against me. It is the rain from the skies, the floods, the 
epidemics. I, who have had every comfort during my 
whole life long — I am ruined now.’ I would have given 
my life to have saved him, but 1 was powerless. 

“ Then a rumor spread in the county that Lord Latimer 
was coming to Hillside, and that he would be very gener- 
ous to his tenants, and would return so much percentage 
of the rents paid; but my poor father was beyond that, he 
was so greatly in arrears. The end of it was. Lord Lati- 
mer came to Hillside Towers, and there was a grand meet- 
ing of all the tenantry. There were plenty of speeches 
and cheers; Lord Latimer was lauded to the skies. But 
my father came from it pale and trembling; he would 
have to sell all that he had in the world, and then leave 


LADY LATIMER’S ESCAPE. 


29 


Fernhills. He said little, but he wore the look of a heart- 
broken man. He told me that on the day following, Lord 
Latimer was coming himself to look over Fernhills. 

“ Audrey, what happened was this: Lord Latimer came 
and fell in love with me. He was pleased to tell my father 
that I was the loveliest girl he had ever seen in his life, 
and that if 1 would be his wife, my father should not only 
have Fernhills for his life, but he would give him sufficient 
capital to repair all the damage done by the floods, and to 
restock the farm. That was the price paid for me, and 
when 1 come to think of it, it was very much like selling 
me. 

“ Neither my father nor aunt looked at it in that light. 
They thought such a piece of fortune perfectly magical; 
they never seemed to think there could be a possibility of 
my refusing. I do not know that I thought so myself. I 
do not remember that I made the least effort to save my- 
self. I was blind; one thought only filled my mind, and 
it was that I should save my father. You see, there is no 
one to blame. My aunt thought that I was the happiest 
and most fortunate girl in the world; my father almost be- 
lieved that the very powers of Heaven had interfered to 
save him from ruin; Lord Latimer said his visit to Hillside 
had been a very fortunate thing for him. There was no 
one to save me, and 1 had not the sense to save myself. 1 
had been so happy in my simple home life that I had never 
thought or troubled about lovers or marriage; to live 
always at Fernhills with my father seemed to me the height 
of human happiness. I had not reached the knowledge 
then that I have now — that love is the crown of life, and 
that no life is complete without it. 

“ I know that, Audrey, now; I did not then. I make 
no complaint, but I think the three who were older and 
wiser, who knew more of life than 1 did, might have 
warned me, might have told me that I could not live with- 
out love. We were married quietly enough in the church 
at Hillside — Lord Latimer would not have any fuss — and 
directly the ceremony was over we went away to the Con- 
tinent. We stayed there for a year and a half, then came 
home here to Lorton's Cray, and here I am, just begin- 
ning to understand the mysteries, the wants, the wishes, 
and the pains of human life,” 


30 


lady latimer’s escape. 


CHAPTER VI. 

After hearing that story, 1 understood; and while I 
loved Lady Latimer the better for it, it made me the more 
anxious over her. 

It was so natural for her to long for some one who would 
he kind to her, who would give her flowers and whisper 
kind words to her; all young girls must have the same 
wish and desire. But what unutterable woe it would cause 
if she found this some one now! And in some vague way 
this fear became the shadow of my life. Not that there 
was any seeming cause for it. Lady Latimer was not in 
the least degree a flirt; she was far too spiritual and too 
earnest for that. Many visitors came to Lorton’s Cray — 
some she admired, some she liked, some she talked with; 
but 1 never saw, on her part, the least approach to a flirta- 
tion, never a light look or word. At times, if it happened 
to her, as in the case of the Feltons, a young husband who 
was much in love with and very attentive to his wife, she 
would look wistfully at them, and she would say to me, 
“ How happy a well-loved wife must be!” and my answer 
was always a very dry, brief “ Yes.” 

I was as young as she herself, yet I saw the danger that 
lay before her, and she evidently did not. She missed 
something in her life, but she did not see breakers ahead in 
consequence of that miss, as I saw for her. 

From that time there came into my love for her a sense 
of protection. Although there was no difference in our* 
ages, 1 felt much more like her mother than anything else, 
the sense of responsibility was so great upon me. 

The month of September came round, and with it a 
large company of guests. The shooting at Lorton’s Cray 
was considered excellent. I remember the morning when 
Lord Latimer looked up from his letters with a growl of 
satisfaction. 

“ Lionel is coming/’ he said, “ and he is bringing a 
friend with him, Colonel-Colonel— North. I wish he 
would write more plainly. Why, that must be the North 
who is heir at law to all the Dudley Gordon estates. They 
will be here to-morrow evening. I am glad that Philip 
North is coming.” 


LADY LATIMEK’S ESCAPE. . 31 

Lady Latimer looked pleased and interested. Neither 
of us had a thought that the coming of these two visitors 
would be a turning-point in both our lives. I had thought 
much of the coming of Lionel Fleming. If it was possible 
for a human being to be in love with a picture, I was with 
his. I went to look at it every day, and every day admired 
it more. I desired greatly to see the original. I found 
myself often repeating his name — Lionel Fleming. I won- 
dered if he had changed much; I wondered if he would 
talk to me, if he would be kind to me. The picture’s eyes 
looked so true and so full of courage — would the real eyes 
look as pleasantly at me as they did? Quite suddenly all 
my questions were answered, all my wonder ended. There 
came an afternoon in September when the sunset was of 
extraordinary beauty. Lady Latimer asked me to go out 
on the lawn with her to watch it. It was a Scene of most 
wonderful beauty; the whole of the western sky was 
aflame. Surely such colors were never mixed before; 
purple and gold, rose and amber, scarlet and blue — the 
most gorgeous of hues, the richest tints. The sun set over 
the river, and the water had caught and reflected all the 
wondrous colors. 

“Lid you ever see anything so lovely?” asked Lady 
Latimer; and as she spoke, coming as it were out of the 
lurid light the sunset threw upon the earth, we saw the 
figures of two men slowly approaching us. “ That is 
Lionel Fleming,” cried Lady Latimer. The next minute 
they were with us. 

I shall never forget the scene — the flaming evening sky, 
the riohly colored water of the river, the strange light that 
brooded over the earth, the dark, handsome faces of the 
two men, their grand, athletic figures standing out in bold 
relief against the sky. I heard the few words of greeting 
between Lady Latimer and Lionel Fleming, and 1 heard 
the introduction of Colonel North; both gentlemen were 
introduced to me, and then it seemed all a dream. 

I could fancy that the beautiful face in the picture had 
descended from the frame, and was near me in the strange 
evening light. The eyes that sought mine were as true 
and as brave, the same kingly head with its clusters of dark 
hair, the same beautiful mouth with its fine bold curves, 
the same broad shoulders and noble figure; but he, the 
real man, looked older than the picture. • 


32 LADY LATIMER'S ESCAPE. 

Let me confess it: my heart went down before him. He 
had not been talking to me ten minutes before 1 thought 
to myself that there was no man like him, and that I 
would rather have even his most distant acquaintanceship 
than the love of any other. It was not that I was very 
romantic or easily won, but it seemed to me that I had 
known him long. It was my picture-lover come to life, 
and if it had not been for that picture, for my love and 
admiration of it, all would have been' different; but I had 
dreamed of that face for long weeks, just as I had repeated 
the name. 

No foolish ideas came to me. True, to my thinking he 
was a great hero, a great prince, as far above me as the 
stars are above the earth. I did not think to myself that 
I would try to charm him. No false notions entered my 
mind, but I confess humbly my heart went out to him. 
It seemed as though my life suddenly grew complete; a 
vague, delicious happiness took possession of me. None 
of this was shown in my manner. Lionel Fleming walked 
by my side and talked to me. I seemed to have gone away 
into fairy-land. I had forgotten the sunset and the river, 
Lady Latimer and the colonel. 1 had forgotten every- 
thing in the wide world, except Lionel Fleming. I did 
not even know what he was saying, and 1 answered him at 
random “ yes " or “ no." 

The first thing that roused me was the sound of a laugh 
— a clear, beautiful, silvery laugh, with a ring of true en- 
joyment in it, such as I had never heard from the lips of 
Lady Latimer before. 1 turned to look at her; she was 
talking to Colonel North, and there was a brightness in 
her face new to me. Colonel North was a very handsome 
man; not like Lionel Fleming — no one could be like him. 
He was a fine, tall, soldierly man, with an erect, almost 
haughty bearing. He looked like what he was, a soldier 
and a gentleman. He had fine dark eyes and dark-brown 
hair; his features were handsome and distinguished; he 
had the air of one born to command. I noticed especially 
the strength and the whiteness of his hands. I liked him 
— no one could help it; he was always pleasant and kind to 
me. We walked slowly back to the house. I have never 
seen the sun set over the river without recalling every de- 
tail of that evening. We all four went into Lady Lati- 
mer's boudoir for a few minutes, where we took some tea 


lady latimer's escape. 


33 


— dinner was at eight— and still the strange feeling of 
something unreal was over me. 

We had a delightful half hour, then Lionel Fleming 
went in search of Lord Latimer, Colonel North to his 
room, and Lady Latimer and myself went to her room. 

“ The dressing-bell has just rung," she said. “ Oh, 
Audrey, stay just five minutes, and tell me what dress to 
wear." 

And that was the first time since 1 had known her that 
Lady Latimer ever mentioned dress to me. 1 looked at 
her in wonder. 

“ I want to look nice to-night," she said. “You see, 
we have a large dinner-party." 

On the previous evening the dinner-party had been even 
larger, and she had been perfectly indifferent over her 
dress, wearing exactly what her maid had prepared for her 
without comment. 

I thought this interest in her toilet was an excellent 
sign, and in my wise fashion I tried to encourage it. 

“ I like you best in blue," 1 said; “ it suits your fair, 
rose-leaf complexion and golden hair; and of all textures, 1 
prefer velvet. It takes such beautiful lights and shades; 
then pearls go best with blue velvet." 

“ Thank you," she said, cheerfully. 

I was delighted when 1 saw how bright and interested 
she was. At dinner there was quite a change in her. All 
the weariness and fatigue had disappeared; her eyes were 
bright as stars. She was radiantly lovely, her voice had 
another ring, her laugh new music. It was the happiest 
dinner-party we had had at Lorton's Cray. 

Colonel North was one of the best talkers I had ever 
heard; graphic, terse, entertaining, he completely en- 
chained us. He had read much; his thoughts and ideas 
were so vigorous, so noble. I saw Lady Latimer's eyes 
fixed on him, and when he had finished speaking, she 
drew a deep breath like one released from a spell. The 
gentlemen "were not long before they followed us. As a 
rule. Lady Latimer did not exert herself much to enter- 
tain her guests, but to-night she was all fire and anima- 
tion; she talked and laughed; she abandoned her accus- 
tomed place by the window and came to the piano. It 
turned out that Colonel North had a superb tenor voice. 

2 


34 


lady latimer’s escape. 


Why a man so strong, tall, and vigorous should be a tenor 
instead of deep high bass was a puzzle to me. 

Clear, deep, ringing, full of passion and music, I have 
heard no other voice like it. He sung one or two charm- 
ing love songs, and 1 could not help thinking to myself 
that he could sing the heart from the breast of any woman. 
1 saw Lady Latimer standing quite still near the piano, a 
faint flush on her face, her eyes fixed on him. He sung 
the lullaby of Whyte Melville, with its unequaled music 
and words: 

“ Sleep, my love, sleep; rest, my love, rest. 

Dieth the moan of the wind in the tree; 

Foldeth her pinions the bird in her nest; 

Sinketh the sun to his bed in the sea. 

Sleep — sleep! lulled on my breast, 

Tossing and troubled and thinking of me. 

“ Hush, my love, hush! With petals that close, 

Bowing and bending their heads to the lee, 

Fainteth the lily and fadetli the rose, 

Sighing and sad for desire of the tree.] 

Hush, hush! drooping like those, 

Weary of waking and watching for me. 

“ Peace, my love, peace! Falletli the night, 

Veiling in shadows her glory for thee; 

Eyes may be darkened, while visions are bright, 

Senses be fettered, though fancy is free. 

Peace, peacel Slumbering light, 

Longing and loving, and dreaming of me.” 

The last beautiful words died away, and I was startled 
by the expression of Lady Latimer’s face. She looked as 
though she had awakened, as though some great and novel 
discovery had come to her. Her eyes wore a startled ex- 
pression, her beautiful lips were parted. Startled, won- 
dering, almost confused at her sudden awakening, she 
crossed the room and came to me. She clasped one of my 
hands in her own. 

“ Audrey,” she said, “ that song has roused me from a 
long sleep. I know what I miss in my life, what I miss 
and others have; it is love;” and she looked at me with 
shining eyes. “ I did not know it before,” she continued. 
“ 1 know it now; it is love.” 


lady latimer's escape. 


35 


CHAPTER VII. 

It is not my own love story that I am writing; if it 
were, 1 should have to tell what a bewilderingly happy 
month this September was to mo. I said to myself that 1 
resembled one of those who worship sun, moon, and stars, 
yet never expect to get near them. I might have called 
my love story “ The Romance of a Star;" I had just as 
much hope as though I loved one of the golden eyes of 
heaven and wished to win it — just as much. But I was 
unutterably happy. I did not look forward; 1 never asked 
myself what would happen when September ended; I never 
asked myself what I should do when he was gone. I lived 
in the present. 

Captain Fleming was especially kind to me. I could 
not help noticing that he spent as much time with me as 
was possible. We met always at breakfast-time, and very 
often before. 1 liked the lawn in the early morning, I 
liked to watch the sunlight over the river, I liked the early 
song of the birds; and he had the same taste, so that we 
often met by the white gate where the syringa-trees stood 
and which led down to the river. We were always, I re- 
member, equally surprised at meeting, and just a little shy. 

At breakfast-time he generally secured a place near me. 
Then Lady Latimer, if the day were fine, would drive over 
to some appointed place and take lunch for the sportsmen. 
How many happy hours we spent in the woods and among 
the heather! Then would come dinner, and the long, 
happy, brilliant evenings. It was more than fairy-land, 
it was an earthly paradise. Of course, September would 
pass, and they would go, but no need to think of that now; 
let the glorious sun of the present shine on. There was a 
large party in the house, but though I knew them, knew 
who they were, and that much of the duty of entertaining 
them fell upoa me, I was hardly conscious of their exist- 
ence. I had eyes and ears only for the man who was so 
much like a picture just stepped from its frame. It was 
not my fancy — a new light came in his eyes when he looked 
at me, new tones in his voice when he spoke to me; but 
of course it meant nothing more than the sun means when 
it gives royal light and warmth to a flower. 


36 


lady latimer/s escape. 


He would be Lord Latimer some day, master of Lorton’s 
Cray and all its broad lands; he would marry some one in 
his own sphere, some great lady with gold and lands of her 
own, and then — 

Let me be happy while I could; it is not every one who 
secures one month of perfect bliss from a life-time. 1 did. 

When the mists of happiness and love, wonder and de- 
light, began to clear from my own brow, I perceived a 
great change in Lady Latimer. All the weariness that had 
lain over her young beauty like a shadow had vanished; 
she was simply radiant, her eyes bright as stars, her face 
flushed with the fairest tints of health. I could have 
fancied that even the sheen of her golden hair had grown 
deeper. She who had been so listless that nothing interest- 
ed her, went about -now with sweet snatches of song and 
sweet smiles on her lips, interested in everything, full of 
grace, of vigor, and of kindness. She was most patient 
and forbearing with Lord Latimer; she seemed to live and 
move in an atmosphere of perfect gladness and content. 
At first I did not see or understand; afterward I knew well 
enough what was the cause. 

“ 1 never knew before,” she said to me, one morning, 
“ what a lovely month September is. The red and gold, 
the russet brown and deep crimson of the trees, are even 
more beautiful than their green leaves; and I like Septem- 
ber flowers better than those which come in spring; there 
is nothing so lovely as the white chrysanthemum.” 

Poor child! I knew afterward why she tound September 
the fairest of months. Again, we had driven one noon to 
Ashton Firs, taking with us luncheon for the sportsmen. 
We stood for some minutes watching the sunlight 6n the 
valley, and the blue haze on the distant hills. She turned 
to me suddenly, her eyes filled with tears. 

“ Oh, Audrey,” she said, “ what a beautiful world it is! 
I never knew until now. 1 seem to have slept through 
my life, and to be j ust awakening. Do you see the green 
on the grass and the lovely blue of the sky? Why, 
Audrey, 1 never knew how much music there was in a 
bird's song, 1 never knew what the brook sung about, or 
the winds told to the trees, until now.” 

Ah, my dear, my dear! neither you nor 1 was wise 
enough to know what was teaching you. 

One evening— it was the month of September, and the 


LADY LATIMER'S ESCAPE. 


37 


harvest moon was shining bright as day in the midst of a 
. dark-blue sky — the gentlemen sat longer than usual over 
their wine. The night was warm and pleasant. 

“ Audrey/' said Lady Latimer, “let us go as far as the 
white gate just to look at the river." 

I wrapped a black lace shawl round her golden head and 
white shoulders, and we went out together, leaving the 
shining lights that streamed from the great windows, and 
the dim, soft shadow of the old house behind us, down past 
the lime-trees, to the white gate that was canopied with 
trees. 

“ Open it, Audrey, and let us go down to the water’s 
edge," said Lady Latimer. 

We went, and 1 remember, as though it were yesterday, 
our shadows on the long grass, and the wooing sigh of the 
wind in the fast-dying lime-leaves. 

The moon shone full over the river, every wavelet seemed 
to catch a ray of silvery light; the sight was beautiful as 
fairy-land. Lady Latimer stood silent for some minutes; 
then, in a low, soft voice she began the lines: 

“ I passed without the city gate, 

I lingered by the way, 

The palm was bending to her mate, 

And thus I heard her say: 

“ ‘ The arrow to the quiver, 

And the wild bird to the tree; 

The stream to meet the river, 

And the river to the sea. 

The waves are wedded on the beach, 

The shadows on the lea; 

And like to like— and eacn to each, 

And I — to thee. 

“ ‘ The cedar on the mountain, 

And the bramble in the brake; 

The willow by Ihe fountain. 

And the lily by the lake; 

The serpent coiling in its lair, 

The eagle soaring free, 

Draw kin to kin, and pair to pair, 

And I— to thee. ’ 

“ The palm was bending to her mate, 

I marked her meaning well; 

And passed within the city gate, 

The old fond tale to tell,” 


38 


LADY LATIMER’S ESCAPE. 


“1 can remember, Audrey/’ she said, “ when I read 
those lines, and they were so much Greek to me. Now 1* 
understand them perfectly. They mean that every one 
must have love, that like will seek like, that the young 
seek youth, the beautiful seek others as fair. Everything 
in nature loves, even to the butterfly who loves the blue- 
bell, and the bee which is betrothed to the bloom; and if 
flowers and birds, bees and butterflies, all love, how much 
more we — I think — nay, I am sure, that I have been 
blind all my life until now.” 

“ And what has given light and sight to your eyes 
now?” I asked. 

1 could not resist the question, although I knew it would 
have been so much better left alone; but she looked at me 
with calm, sweet eyes. 

“ I do not know,” she answered. “ It seems to me 
that the eyes of my soul are just open, and that they see 
infinite light — infinite brightness. Ah me!” 

I knew, though she did not, what had taught her, and 
my heart went out to her in great loving pity. She went 
on, a perfect rapture of happiness shining in her face. 

“ Even the moonlight is different to me. I thought it 
cold and capricious. Now 1 see the light is tender and full 
of poetry; now I see — ” 

But the words were never finished. Quite suddenly the 
white gate opened, and we heard a voice that made my 
heart beat, say : 

“You are here. Lady Latimer. Philip said you would 
be here by the river.” 

Ah me! the light on her face — the tender, beautiful 
blush — the rapt expression when she turned to Colonel 
North, and said, with a smile: 

“ How did you know that 1 should be here?” 

“ I felt quite sure of it. You love the moonlight, and 
you love the river. When we found the drawing-room 
empty, I said to Lionel, 4 Lady Latimer and Miss Lovel 
have gone to look at the moonlight.’ ” 

“ I, of course,” interrupted Lionel, “ said at once, 4 Let 
us find them.’ And we have found you.” 

There was one moment of delicious silence, when it 
seemed to me that the very moonlight throbbed and 
thrilled on the air. 


lady latimer's escape. 


30 


f# Wo need not hurry in,” said Colonel North. 
“Several of them are coming. A stroll by the river on 
this moonlit night will be much better than sitting in a 
drawing-room by the light of lamps.” 

Then came half an hour that was like, time stolen from 
Paradise. It seemed quite natural that Captain Fleming 
should walk by my side, even more natural* than Colonel 
North should walk with Lady Latimer. Others joined us, 
but no one broke up these little groups; no one came to 
me, no one joined Lady Latimer. 

We talked about everything bright and beautiful; of the 
river that rolled on to the sea, of the moon that shone in 
the sky, of the wind whose whispers were those of a lover 
among the leaves. Then I perceived that Colonel North 
and Lady Latimer were standing by the rustic bridge which 
spanned the river. The bfhck lace shawl had fallen, leav- 
ing her golden head bare, and her lovely face all washed 
by the moonlight. She looked wondrously fair. Captain 
Fleming was looking at them. 

“ What a beautiful pair they would make,” he said, 
suddenly. “ Colonel North is my ideal of a soldier, and 
Lady Latimer is one of the fairest of women.” 

Indeed, the dark, soldierly face and figure showed to 
great advantage by the side of the fair and radiant woman. 

We remained out-of-doors nearly an hour. 1 went with 
Captain Fleming to the square of fountains. They were 
indescribably beautiful under the light of the harvest 
moon, and I am afraid we forgot every one else. I did. 
It was the night of nights to me. But when we came 
back to the drawing-room, Lady Latimer was there. The 
beautiful tenor voice of Colonel North was ringing through 
the room, and she stood by the window listening, with a 
dreamy smile on her fair face, and these were the words 
that he sung: 

“ Not much I sought, I had my dream — 

Dear love, your very words I quote — 

A rose, the ripple of a stream, 

A blue sky and a boat. 

“ But roses fade as roses blow, 

And summer skies can lower and frown; 

The stream runs deep and dark, and so 
This boat of ours went down.” 


40 


lady latimer's escape. 


She smiled as she listened to the words, then, lightly 
touching a yellow rose that she wore on her breast, she 
sadi : 

“ Roses fade as roses blow, but this one will never die.” 

“ Who gave it to you?” I asked. 

“ Colonel North,” she answered; and 1 saw all heaven 
in her face as she uttered the words. Then, ah me!— then 
I knew all. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

I them knew all. 1 knew that she had found the 
something missing in her life, that she had learned what 
the birds sung about and the wind whispered to blossom 
and leaf, what the waves said when they broke on the 
shore. She had learned the great secret of life, which was 
love; but she did not know it — ah! thank God for that. 

She would not have looked so happy, so bright, so inno- 
cent, if she had known what had happened to herself. 
She did not know; that was my chief cause for gratitude. 
The knowledge might come to her, but it had not done so 
yet, and I vowed to myself that if I could I would guard 
her from it. She had entered fairy-land, but she was all 
unconscious that she had passed the golden gate. She had 
listened to the songs of Paradise, but she did not know 
they had sounded in her ears. She had drunk pf the 
chalice which is all foam, and she had not recognized its 
flavor. She saw suddenly, and as she had never seen it 
before, all the beauty and brightness of the world, but she 
did not know what had opened her eyes. I prayed Heaven 
she never might. 

She was so innocently happy, the expression of her face 
was one of glad content; even Lord Latimer noticed it at 
last. 

“ It seems to me, Grace,” he said to her one morning, 
“ that you have grown better-looking.” 

1 thought to myself, “ Oh, blind of eyes, blind of heart, 
not to understand.” Surely, any one who loved her might 
have seen the danger she was in; so young, so fair, with 
such a passionate, loving heart, and left entirely to her 
own resources— for Lord Latimer spent very little time 
with his guests. He had grown older and more feeble 
lately, and as life slipped away and he lost his grasp of its 


lady latimer's escape. 


41 


pleasures, he grew morose and more stern. He liked 
Lionel Fleming, and he spent a great deal of time in talk- 
ing to him; but he never went out with the sportsmen, he 
never joined the luncheon-parties. He dined every even- 
ing with his guests, but he never appeared in the drawing- 
room after dinner. She was left, then, to herself, to the 
influence of the sweet, sad music and the harvest moon. 
There was no one to say, “ Do not let Colonel North sing 
your heart away;" no one to say, “ Do not go out every 
evening while the harvest moon is shining;" no one seemed 
to notice anything but me. Lady Latimer was mistress of 
the house. Colonel North the most important guest in it. 
It was natural that he should walk and ride by her side, 
that he should be her escort, that he should make her the 
especial object of his attentions; but it was not natural 
that he should look at her, when he was singing, with his 
whole heart in his eyes, and that every night, while the 
harvest moon was shining, he should ask her to go down 
and look at the river with him; nor was it quite natural 
that he should gather all the flowers she wore, and talk so 
much poetry to her. I thought often of her simple words 
to me, “ How nice it must be to have some one to say lov- 
ing words to you and bring you nice flowers!" She had 
both now — flowers and words. 

I tried my best to take care of her. I of ten sacrificed 
the time I might have spent with Captain Fleming in sit- 
ting beside her, trying to take some little of her attention 
from Colonel North. I might as well have tried to fly 
over the moon; but, thank Heaven! no one saw it except 
me. 

The boys loved Colonel North. He/was their beau-ideal 
of a soldier, a gentleman, and a “ man who had no non- 
sense about him," which was Bob's favorite description of 
him. Give them half an hour with the colonel, and they 
were quite happy. “ He knows how to treat a boy.; there 
is no make-believe about him," they said. To my wonder, 
astonishment, imagination, and dismay, they preferred 
him to the heir of Lorton's Cray. They all wanted to be 
“ tall as the colonel, handsome as the colonel, and just as 
upright. " In fact, the colonel was the hero of the hour. 
Captain Fleming came next, but, as Bob irreverently 
phrased it, he was not “ real jam." 

During this happy month of September, Lord Latimer 


LADY LATOlEJl’S ESCAPE. 


42 

did not forget my father and mother. Every day there 
was a dispatch of game from the hall to the vicarage, and 
every week, at least, they joined us at dinner. They saw 
nothing of what troubled me so greatly; my sweet mother 
would not have understood such a thing. They considered 
Colonel North a king among men — so brave, so gallant, 
so courteous; they quoted him and admired him. He was 
a Chevalier Bayard in their eyes, but they preferred Cap- 
tain Fleming. 

One night, when they dined at Lorton’s Cray, I sat next 
to Captain Fleming at dinner. We talked, as usual, 
laughed and amused ourselves; a rose that I had been 
wearing was transplanted to the button-hole of his coat. 
After dinner he talked to me again. We had dancing that 
evening, and he danced with me. I am not quite sure 
whether 1 remembered the existence of any other person. 
When the evening ended, I saw an expression of anxiety 
on my mother’s face. She called me to her side in the 
great entrance hall, and, raising her face to mine, she 
looked straight into my eyes. 

44 Audrey,” she said, “for the first time in my life I 
am anxious over you. 1 am not quite sure if 1 have dono 
a wise thing in letting you come to live here. My dear, 
the heir of Lorton’s Cray is a very haudsome young man.” 

4 4 He is as good and brave as he is handsome, mother,” 
I replied. 

Her face cleared a little; this open praise disarmed her. 

44 He seems to like talking to you, Audrey,” she con- 
tinued; “but, of course, my dear child, you always bear 
in mind the difference in your positions. You have too 
much sense, Audrey, to let your mind get filled with ab- 
surd ideas. I — I should not like you to be made unhappy 
because 1 am not here to look after you; it would imbitter 
my whole life.” 

I smiled. 1 had never hoped, 1 had never thought of 
hope, so that I could safely look in my mother’s faoe and 
smile. 

I took her to the great hall window, whence we could 
see the stars shining in the sky. I pointed to the brightest 
and the largest. 

44 Do you see that star, mother?” I asked. 

44 Yes,” she answered. 

44 1 should sooner think of asking it to come down from 


LADY LATIMER’S ESCAPE. 43 

heaven to me than of filling my mind with foolish ideas 
about Captain Fleming.” 

In spite of myself my lips quivered as I uttered his 
name, but my mother did not notice it. 1 did not distress 
her by crying out the truth — that I had been willing to 
barter the happiness of my whole life for one month’s 
bliss; it would nave broken her heart. I told her no un- 
truth, I did not even deceive her, for I had never dreamed 
of any return for my great love. 1 never misunderstood 
his kindness or his gay, chivalrous fashion. It would soon 
be over now; no need to break my mother’s heart as well 
as my own. 

The beautiful month was drawing to an end, but before 
any of us had begun to realize what the parting would be 
like. Lord Latimer introduced a new feature. One day, 
just before dinner. Captain Fleming had gone into the 
library to speak to him. Colonel North followed. Busi- 
ness of some kind took Lady Latimer and myself there; 
we had a lively conversation; the old lord seemed pleased 
and cheered. 

“ 1 consider,” he said, “ that this shooting-party has 
been a great success. Lionel, you must come back at 
Christmas — come for some weeks, and help Lady Latimer 
with her charades and plays. Come with him, Colonel 
North.” 

I saw the colonel look first at Lady Latimer. Her 
beautiful eyes smiled upon him. 

“ 1 shall be only too delighted,” he' replied; and that 
was how it happened that parting lost its pain. 

Little matter that they left when September was over if 
they returned for Christmas. When the end came, and 
the day dawned on which they left Lorton’s Cray, it was 
with smiles, not tears, we saw them ride away. A few 
weeks, only a few, and they returned for even a longei 
stay. 

It was a strange calm after they had gone. We were 
not unhappy or dull; a new order of things set in. Wo 
were always thinking of and preparing for Christmas and 
the New Year. 

“ We will have such a Christmas as has never been cele- 
brated in England before,” said Lady Latimer to me. 
“ We will have the old banqueting-hall made into a 
theater; we will have charades, masquerades, and theatri- 


44 


lady latimer’s escape. 


cals; we will dance and sing. When it is frosty, we will 
skate. When the snow falls and the wind wails, we will 
tell ghost tales. Oh, Audrey, how happy we shall be!” 

And she whose beautiful face had once expressed all the 
weariness that life could hold, caught me in her arms and 
waltzed round the room with me. 

It was both pitiful and touching. She thought of noth- 
ing, talked of nothing but Christmas; everything referred 
to Christmas; there was no looking beyond it. If a beau- 
tiful costume was sent from London or Paris, it was re- 
served for Christmas. 

“ I think the end of the world will come at Christmas, 
Lady Latimer,” 1 said. “We are making such prepara- 
tions for it. ” 

She laughed gayly. She was always laughing now, and 
a sweet, glad content rested on her fair face. 

“ 1 never knew before,” she cried, “ what a happy time 
Christmas was, Audrey;” and then her face flushed crim- 
son. “We used to hang up what we called ‘ a kissing 
bunch 9 at home.” 

“ So did we,” I answered, and my face grew even redder 
than hers. 

“ I — 1 suppose,” she said, after a time, “ that we could 
not do such a thing here at Lorton’s Cray. It seems to 
me, Audrey, the grander a house is, the more miserable it 
is. Think of the merriment in your house at Christmas. 
But we shall be happy. What do you think of a kissing 
bunch?” 

“ If we have one at all,” I answered, discreetly, “ it 
must be called a mistletoe bough.” 

“ Well, what do you think of a mistletoe bough?” she 
asked. 

1 thought it delightful, and told her so. 

Then she drew nearer to me. She took my arms, and 
laid them round her neck. 

“ Audrey,” she whispered, “ if we have a mistletoe 
bough, will any one kiss us, do you think — you and me?” 

“ Lord Latimer may,” 1 answered, dryly. 

“Anyone else?” she asked. But I would not smile. 
“ I know some people so lovable,” she said, “ that to 
stand under the mistletoe for two minutes with them would 
atone for years of unhappiness.” 


lady latimer’s escape. 


45 


“ I am sorry that I do not knuw any one of that descrip- 
tion,” I answered. I was always careful — always discreet. 

But, for all that, when the orders were given for the 
Christmas evergreens, there was a large one for mistletoe. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Every day Christmas came nearer and nearer- — every 
day the face of beautiful Lady Latimer grew fairer and 
younger, more bright and more radiant — every day she 
woke up with fresh plans and fresh designs— every day she 
found some new beauty, some new happiness in the coming 
Christmas-tide. And all this because she had learned to 
love Colonel North without knowing it. At last Christmas 
came, and brought them both with it. 

The snow and the biting frost had come, the ice was 
inches thick on the deep meres and pools round Lorton’s 
Cray, and Lorton’s Cray itself was a scene of merriment 
and festivity. A large Christmas party was gathered 
under its roof. 

Lady Latimer was one of the most charming of hostesses. 
Lord Latimer took very little part in it; he dined, as 
usual, with his guests, and then retired. He never came 
to the drawing-room, but once or twice had made his way 
to the billiard-room. 

I may have been prejudiced, but to me he seemed more 
morose and more stern than ever. It may be. that it 
angered him to see youth and merriment all round him, 
yet not be able to share in it. 

There was nothing to mar the happiness. If Lord Lati- 
mer heard the sounds of music, dancing, and song, he 
made no comments, and the old walls rocked again with 
Christmas fun and merriment. Our boys shared it. Lady 
Latimer never left them out, when it was practicable to 
have them there. 

They were at most of the skating-parties, and caused 
unlimited fun. I noticed one thing, and admired their 
good sense; they had entirely ceased to advise me over 
marrying, and were content to take things as they were. 

The dear boys! I can see them now on the ice, with 
great red worsted comforters, and hands perfectly blue with 
cold, yet happy as kings. They saw nothing of the shadow 


40 


lady Latimer’s escape. 


that hung over Lorton’s Cray, but I did, and I was power- 
less to prevent it. 

I can not tell exactly how I saw it deepen, but the time 
came when 1 could think of nothing else. I placed my 
own love story aside to devote myself to her. I can not 
tell either when I first grew alarmed, and began to watch 
other people, to see if they were watching her. But no, 
the world went on its way rejoicing, and no one saw that 
a soul was in danger but myself — unconsciously so; that I 
shall always maintain — nevertheless, in peril so great that 
the very angels in heaven looked on in pity. 

The first time that I was alarmed was one lovely frosty 
morning when the sun shone on the snow, and the hoar- 
frost had silvered the trees and hedges, and the icicles 
hung like huge diamonds. A walk through Lorton Woods 
had been proposed, and when we were all ready to start. 
Colonel North was absent. I shall never forget Lady 
Latimer’s face — all the brightness died from it, all the 
animation vanished. It was plain enough to be seen that 
the walk had lost all its interest for her. 

4 4 It is bitterly cold,” she said to me, with a shudder. 
44 I am not at all sure whether we are wise in going.” 

Quite suddenly he came upon us; he had been to the 
stable to give some directions about his horses. No need 
to speak. I turned aside with a groan. If all heaven had 
been suddenly opened to her, she could not have looked 
more delighted; her very soul seemed to shine in her eyes 
as they rested on him. 

44 1 though we had lost you,” she said. 

He took her arm in his, and with laughing gallantry, 
said: 

44 You may lose your memory, Lady Latimer, but you 
will never lose me.” And though he laughed, 1 knew the 
words were true. 

They went off together, forgetting all the world. Ah 
me! And I, who loved her better than I loved my life, 
stood by, powerless to help her. But the truth was appar- 
ent; she had learned to love Colonel North — unconscious- 
ly, I know — and he loved her. 1 was as young as herself, 
but it seemed to me that the entire responsibility of her 
rested on my shoulders. 

What should I do? I could not go to the old lord and 
say, 44 Rouse yourself; the beautiful young child whom 


LADY LATIMER’S ESCAPE. 


47 


you have made your wife is in deadly peril. She married 
you without love, and she has learned, unconsciously, what 
love is since then. Save her, for she is in mortal peril.” 
Heaven only knows what would happen; he was not that 
kind of man. Some men would have been noble, tolerant, 
generous — would have helped her out of the danger; not 
Lord Latimer; there was very little nobility of soul about 
him. If 1 had gone to her and said, “ My dear, you are 
in deadly danger; you are married to a man older than 
your father/ whom you do not love, and you have found 
one whom you do love,” I might, by suddenly opening her 
eyes, do far more harm than good, and she might do some- 
thing desperate in her despair. The only thing that 
seemed left for me to do was to watch over her with de- 
voted care and love. 

More than once it occurred to me to speak to the colonel, 
but it was a delicate and dangerous thing to do. 1 am 
quite sure that at first he had no thought of harm. Her 
beauty attracted him, and her genuine delight in his society 
urged him on, until the spell of passion lay upon both — 
and the passion of love is a terrible one. The shadow 
grew deeper and darker to my eyes, although no one else 
saw it. They were seldom apart now. When breakfast 
was over he was her companion in all walks and drives; 
they spent the afternoon together, either at the piano or 
with books; when twilight fell and it was too dark to read, 
too light for the lamps, they would be found in the con- 
servatory talking, always talking, with the same earnest 
look on each beautiful face. Many a time 1 have gone in 
search of her and found her standing in the dim light by 
his side, her face all shining, and I have come away pray- 
ing, “ Dear Heaven, help her, or she is lost!” At night 
she was queen of the revels, and he was king; they danced 
together, they sung together, and when those two exquisite 
voices went floating through the room in one grand unison, 
I knew how their souls went together also. A Christmas 
revel, a New Year’s festivity, but for them a something 
which I began to fear would have no ending. The worst 
symptom, to my mind, was that she never spoke of him to 
me. If his name was mentioned in his absence, the color 
would rise and seem to burn her face. 1 tried my best; 
but what was an inexperienced girl of eighteen against two 
people passionately in love? 


48 


LADY LATIMER S ESCAPE. 


There were times when 1 longed to tell Captain Flem- 
ing of the deadly peril so close at hand, and beg of him to 
induce his friend to go away; but my courage failed me 
when I would have made the effort — 1 could not utter the 
words. 

One night— it was the winter gloaming, if there be such 
a time; the lamps were not lighted, and the rooms were 
all brilliant with the red glow of the fire-light and odorous 
with flowers, so warm, so luxurious; the visitors were dis- 
persed over the house, some in the billiard -room, some in 
the music-room. I went to her boudoir in search of Lady 
Latimer. 1 had always been accustomed to enter the room 
without rapping at the door. I did so now. 

I turned the handle gently and went in. They were 
standing together before the fire, the lamps were not light- 
ed, and the ruddy glow of the fire filled the room. Their 
faces were turned to the fire; they neither saw nor heard 
me; his hand rested lightly on her shoulder, and they were 
talking so earnestly. 1 went back quietly as I came, but 
with a sword in my heart, for her sake. 1 waited for one 
minute, then announced my arrival by calling, “ Lady 
Latimer, are you here?” 

“Iam here, dear Audrey; come in,” was the answer. 

But when I went in they stood together no longer; he 
was at .the window, and she at the table. My very heart 
sunk when I saw the happiness on her face. 

The charade-parties were a great success; so were the 
plays. It seemed wonderful to me that no one else re- 
marked how Lady Latimer and Colonel North always took 
the part of lovers; stranger still, that no one saw how 
naturally they assumed it, how, in playing a love scene, it 
was so natural for him to throw his arm round the beauti- 
ful figure that seemed to sway at his least touch, how he 
kissed with passion the white hand that he clasped. 

Could 1 alone, out of the whole world, see, or was every 
one else blind? 

So the shadow deepened and darkened. 1 was unutcer- 
ably miserable; 1 began to live in constant fear. It 
seemed to me there was a volcano beneath my feet. 

No shadow of fear lay on Lady Latimer’s face. I shall 
never know now whether she realized the danger and 
ignored it, or whether she was ignorant of it, until- the end 
came suddenly. It had been arranged that on New Year’s 


lady latimej^s escape. 


49 


Eve a grand ball should be given. The entertainment was 
called a ball, but it was to comprise charades, music, cards, 
and everything else that was enjoyable. Lady Latimer 
and Colonel North had drawn out a programme that was 
most inviting; to my thinking, they spent a great deal of 
time over it, but it was certainly a success. I remember 
overy detail of that New Year’s Eve — how beautiful the 
frozen snow looked in the sunshine, how white and hard 
the ice was, how the scarlet berries of the holly-tree glowed, 
how the robin- redbreasts flew. A beautiful New Year’s 
Eve, on which, ah me! 1 alone saw the shadow. I confess 
Lady Latimer looked lovely enough that night to make 
any man lose both heart and head. She had chosen a cos- 
tume worn generally by those who represent Juliet on the 
stage; blue velvet over white satin, with what looked like 
a net- work or armor of pearls; her white shoulders and 
arms shone through the pearls, her face wore a dainty 
flush, her eyes were bright. Ah me! ah me! 

1 forgot all about myself; my heart was heavy over her. 
1 could not divest myself of a fear, a foreboding that some- 
thing was to happen that night. A presentiment of com- 
ing evil seemed to weigh me down. Captain Fleming said 
to me more than once, “ You look tired and ill. Miss 
Lovel;” but 1 could not answer him. I had no heart — 
no heart. 

It did not surprise me that they danced together, and 
more than one remarked that they were the handsomest 
pair in the room; nor was 1 surprised that, instead of 
dancing together a second time, they went into the con- 
servatory, nor when they walked up and down the picture- 
gallery, nor when they paused for a few moments under 
the mistletoe bough and 1 saw him kiss her; but 1 was sur- 
prised when I heard him say to her: 

“ You need have no fear; I have made every arrange- 
ment. The carriage will be at the turn of the road by two 
o’clock. All will be well.” 

They neither saw nor heard me; they were sitting be- 
hind a group of white camellias, tall trees with glossy 
green leaves, and I was on the other side, hovering near 
her, always fearful, yet without knowing why. Lady 
Latimer made some remark that I did not hear. His 
answer was: 

v ‘ Trust to me, my darling; all will be well,” 


50 


LADY LATIMEtt’S ESCAPE. 

1 turned away sick at heart, and from the depths of my 
soul I prayed Heaven to save her, for she was in deadly 
peril. 

Still the real significance of those words did not occur to 
me. “ The carriage will be at the turn of the road by 
two o’clock.” I thought it was some arrangement about 
driving the next day, and I said to myself, over and over 
again, that 1 must do something to help her, something to 
save her, or she would be lost. Little did I dream, even 
then, of what that New Year would bring forth. 


CHAPTER X. 

How, or how suddenly, I missed her, I can not tell. 
Whenever Lady Latimer quitted a room she seemed to take 
some of the brightness away with her. i missed the shin- 
ing of the pearls and the light gleaming on the blue velvet. 
How long she had been gone from the ball-room I could 
not tell. None of my family was there that evening. 
New Year’s Eve was a saCred festivity at the vicarage. 
My father al ways saw the Old Year die and the New Year 
born on his knees. There was no one to whom I could 
speak or tell my fears. 

Where was she — the beautiful, radiant, graceful woman 
who had given light and brightness even to that bright 
room? Not with Colonel North, that was one comfort, 
for he stood at the end of the ball-room, talking to some 
ladies; but when I came to watch his face, it was unlike 
itself, there was a strange expression on it, as though he 
were waiting, and waiting impatiently. 1 saw restraint 
and constraint upon his face. My fears grew. 

I went to the conservatory, to the picture-gallery, to 
every place where I had last seen the jewels shine, but 
there was no trace of Lady Latimer. Then I went back 
to the ball-room and found that Colonel North had gone 
too. 

1 shall always think that which followed was an ihspira- 
tion from Heaven. 1 looked at one of the jeweled clocks 
that stood in the anteroom; it had turned half past one, 
and the words spoken by Colonel North came plainly to 
me: 

“ The carriage will be at the turn of the road by two 
o’clock.” 


lady latimek’s escape. 


51 


Oh, God! did it mean that? I stood for a minute para- 
lyzed; my heart almost ceased beating, the blood ran cold 
in my veins, my limbs trembled. Could it mean that? 

Quick as thought, I went to Lady Latimer’s room. 
There was nothing unusual at first sight, but when I 
opened the wardrobe door, I saw the blue velvet and pearls 
hastily thrust inside. I knew — 1 knew she had gone away 
with him, and they had chosen the night because they 
imagined during the excitement they would not be missed. 
Two o’clock, at the corner -of the road! 1 knew the turn- 
ing well; a great oak-tree stood there; we had often rested 
under its shade. Should 1 have time to reach it and to 
save her? Quick as thought, I took a cloak and hat from 
her wardrobe. I did not stop to think; 1 knew, in the con- 
fusion, no one would notice me or miss me. 1 flew down 
the great staircase, across the entrance hall, meeting no 
one; then 1 reached the great hall door, and stood outside, 
trying for one moment to think which was the nearest 
way. If 1 could only reach the corner of the road before 
the carriage started, I was all right. I should save her, 
even if I lost my life in doing it. If the carriage had 
gone, then eternal shame and disgrace must be the lot of 
the beautiful woman I loved. The moon was shining, but 
not very brightly, and the stars were out; the snow gleamed 
white and hard on the ground, the tall trees, with their 
bare branches, stood like giants. I looked neither to the 
right nor the left; 1 ran as though for dear life, praying 
Heaven, even as I ran, to save her — save her from eternal 
shame and woe. On, past the shining laurels and the tall 
firs; on, past the frozen lake, past the lime-trees, past the 
holly-bushes gleaming crimson, past the tall larches through 
which the winter wind moaned and wailed; hastening, de- 
spairing, crying to Heaven to help me to save her; and 
then — oh, God be praised and thanked! — I saw them. 
They had not reached the park gates, and she was saved; 
for he should not take her away unless he killed me first; 
I would cling to her — save her in some way. They were 
walking quickly, but the next moment I was with them, by 
her side. I cried out her name, I flung my arms round 
her. “ My darling, you must not, you shall not go!” and 
then I stood for one moment breathless. Which should 1 
speak to? What should I say? 

“ 1 know,” I cried, at last. 


44 The carriage is waiting 


52 


lady latimer’s escape. 


at the turn of the road, and you — oh. Colonel North, gen- 
tleman and soldier — you want to take her away with you 
to eternal shame and eternal remorse! You shall not!” 

“ What, in Heaven’s name, brings you here, Audrey 
Lovel?” cried Colonel North. 

And I answered, “ Heaven itself, to save her from ruin 
and death. You shall not take her away; we are close to 
the lodge gates, and if you try to pass them and take her 
with you, I will raise such an alarm that you will be over- 
taken in five minutes, and she shall be dragged from you 
by force. Gentleman and soldier! Ho you know that you 
are coward and thief in stealing another man’s wife?” 

He drew back. I went on: 

“ The wife of an old man powerless to avenge himself — 
a man who has trusted you, whose bread you have eaten, 
under whose roof you have found hospitable shelter. And 
you repay him by stealing his wife! Why did you not steal 
that which he values less — his gold or his jewels? Oh, 
shame — bitter, endless shame on you!” 

And it seemed to me that the wind took up the words 
and re-echoed them among the trees, ‘‘shame — bitter, 
endless shame!” I turned to the trembling girl. 

“Come back with me, my darling,” I said, “ come 
back. It is only a bad, evil, black dream; come back 
with me; no one shall know.” 

She hesitated, she half clung to him. 1 saw him throw 
his arm round her, and I saw defiance in his face. . 

“ Lady Latimer,” I said, “do you know where those 
gates lead? Look at them, and know the road leading 
from them is the path to hell.” A low moan came from 
her lips. “Think,” I said; “it is not just now, while 
the glamour of love lies on you; it is not the present, it is 
the long years of the future, when the glamour will fall 
from your eyes, and you will remember nothing but the 
wickedness of your sin. Wicked love never lasts long, and 
the love of the man who would brand you with endless 
shame is wicked, weak, and cruel. Think of the long 
years of shame and sorrow and endless remorse! Come 
back with me, darling!” 

“ You mean well. Miss Lovel,” said Colonel North, 
“ but if you have any heart in your breast, you will not 
ask her to go back. I maintain that she h not married— 


LADY LATIMER'S ESCAPE. 53 

marriage means a union of hearts, it means two souls made 
one." 

“ Marriage means the vows taken before God and man, 
which can never be broken," 1 cried. 

“ How can you ask her," he continued, “ to go back to 
that loveless, cheerless, miserable life?" 

* 4 It is her way to heaven," I said. 

“ 1 will make a heaven on earth for her," he cried. 

“ You can not," I answered; “ and if you try to do it, 
you will lose her both worlds. Oh, my darling, come back 
with me! In ever mind the misery, never mind the pain. 
It is all as nothing compared to what you will and must 
suffer if you go with him. Come back, dear." 

Then she spoke to me. 

“ Audrey, let me go," she said. “ I know it is all true, 
but — oh! do not turn away from me — 1 prefer to suffer 
with him. I prefer sorrow and repentance with him to 
my gilded misery without him. Let me go, dear; I could 
not live without him; let me go." 

“ Let her go. Miss Lovel," said Colonel North, in a tone 
of deep emotion. “You mean well, you are very good. 
But she could never be happy there again — never again." 

“ And I love him, Audrey; that shall be my religion — 
love.. You know what I have missed in my life, and now 
1 have found it. I love him; let me go, Audrey; love is 
best." 

“ No, it is not!" I cried — “ it is not best, not such love 
as this. Fear of God and love of duty are best. Oh, 
Lady Latimer, you can not pass those gates, an angel bars 
the way!" 

“ She shall go!" said Colonel North, in a low, resolute 
voice. “ Unclasp your arms. Miss Lovel. I have won 
her by right of love; she is mine, and 1 shall take her!" 

I tightened my clasp on the trembling figure. 

“ She belongs to Lord Latimer," I said, “ and while he 
lives no man shall take her from him." 

She flung her arms round my neck, and cried to me: 

“ Let me go, Audrey; I can not return; let me go with 
him — I love him — I love him !" 

“ No," I answered; “ you are not strong enough to save 
yourself, but I am strong enough to save you. Unless 
you. Colonel North, strike me down dead, you shall not 
take her." 


54 


LADY LATIMER'S ESCAPE. 


44 I do not kill women/' said Colonel North. 

“ You do worse," I cried; 44 you ruin their souls. You 
pretend that you love this poor child ; you would be kinder 
far, braver far, if you plunged a dagger in her heart,, than 
take her away with you. The murder of a body is little 
compared to the murder of a soul." 

He started as though my words had shot him; his hands 
fell from her. 1 threw my arms round her aud drew her 
closer to me. 

44 There is no time to lose," I said. 44 If you take one, 
you take both; if you take Lady Latimer, you take me; I 
will not loose my hold on her until she is safe from you. 
I repeat, there is no time to lose. You do not fear my 
words; I shall give a cry that will soon bring help to us." 

44 No, no!" he cried, hastily. 

But I did. I wonder now that I had the nerve. I gave 
a long, low cry, and the next minute we saw a light in one 
of the windows of the lodge. 

44 Look," I said, 44 we shall have help soon." 

“ Go, Philip," said Lady Latimer; 4 4 go, there is no 
help for us." 

44 1 could curse you for your cruel work!" he said. 

44 You will bless me some time/' I answered. 

44 Let me say good-bye to you, Philip/' cried Lady Lati- 
mer, and her voice was full of anguish. 44 Ah, my love, 
my love, found so late, and lost forever!" 

He took her in his arms — I could hardly keep back my 
tears— he kissed her face, her eyes, her lips. She sobbed 
the while as though her heart would break. 1 heard him 
whisper good-bye, and I heard him say, 44 It was the hand 
of Heaven;" then, with an effort that seemed to rend his 
soul from his body, he turned away. 

One word. Colonel North," 1 said. 44 1 will keep your 
secret, but it must be on my own terms. You must leave 
the house^ to-morrow morning under the pretext that you 
have received a telegram, and you must swear to me that 
you will never return. If you do so, I shall at once tell 
Lord Latimer all that has passed. " 

He bowed; he could not speak; and as he turned away 
from me I saw the tears rain down his face. Then we had 
to draw back and stand in silence under the dark shade of 
the trees, for the lodge-keeper came out, lantern in hand, 
followed by his wife. 


LADY LATIMER'S ESCAPE. 


55 


“ I am sure I heard voices," he said. 

“ I am sure I heard a cry," she replied. 

They looked about for some time, then went in-doors 
again. 

I could not help his turning back and taking Lady 
Latimer in his arms again. 

One quick, passionate embrace, and he was gone. 1 led 
her home. She did not weep, but from her lips came a 
low, soft moan. 

Never mind if she died of it; I had saved her from worse 
than death. 

We spoke no word until we reached the house. I knew 
we muse run some risk. 

“We will go in at the side door, and avoid the grand 
staircase," 1 said. “ Then I will get you to your room." 

She made no answer. 

The mad, merry music of a waltz was sounding as we 
entered the house. Everything seemed just as we had left 
it, and with great care and caution, lest we should bo seen 
or heard, I led her to her room. She stood like a beauti- 
ful white statue, as cold and as dead. 

“ Lady Latimer," 1 said, “you have still yourself to 
save. You must make an effort. Can you hear me? Can 
you see me? You must make one effort more, and save 
yourself. Remember those lines — 

“ Don’t tell me of to-morrow; 

There is much to do to-day, 

That can never be accomplish’d 
If we throw the hours away! 

Every moment has its duty. 

Who the future can foretell? 

Then why defer to-morrow 
What to-day can do as well?” 

Quickly as loving, trembling hands could work, I took 
from her the black dress, the cloak, and bonnet in which 
she was going to travel. I put them out of sight, aud then 
I brought back the blue velvet and pearls. She cried out 
at the sight of it, and waved it from her. 

“ You must put it on," I said. 

“ I can not," she replied. “ 1 would rather wear a 
shroud." 

“You must," 1 said. “You must put it on. You 
must color your face and brighten your hair. You must 


56 


LADY LATIMER'S ESCAPE. 


come down-stairs and show yourself in the ball-room. Re- 
member that you have yourself to save.” 

“ I — I can not/' she cried, in despairing tones. 

“ You must,” I repeated. “ You must do it to save 
yourself, even should you die directly afterward. ” 

My strong will beat down her weaker one. I dressed 
her. 1 tried my best to make her look as she had done ; 
before, but it was as though I had tried to dress a dead 
woman. Then I fetched some biandy for her, and made 
her drink it. 

A faint tinge of color came to her lips. She looked at 
me once with wild eyes. 

“ I hate you!” she said; and the words were like a hiss. 

“ Never mind,” 1 answered, “ if you can only save 
yourself. ” 

1 found her a large bouquet of fresh flowers, and told 
her to hold it before her face when she passed through the 
ball-room, so as to hide her colorless face. She did so; 
but when the time came for her to return to the ball-room 
she could not walk. 

“You must absolutely go,” 1 said. “It is the only 
means of saving yourself. If ever the incidents of this 
night should be known, no one will believe one word if 
you are seen in the ball-room. You must go.” 

She went, leaning on my arm. I shall never forget the 
ordeal. She clutched my arm. 1 felt how she trembled. 

I feared, if any one spoke to her, that she would suddenly 
collapse and fall on the ground. She would have done so, 
but, fortunately, no one came near us. 


CHAPTER XL 

We walked slowly through the ball-room twice. 1 led 
her, as though she were blind and d umb, through the con- 
servatory and the picture-gallery; I was determined that 
every visitor should see her. If by any mischance it was 
rumored that she had been seen in the park after one 
o’clock at night, a hundred voices would be raised in con- 
tradiction, for a hundred people and more saw her in her 
own house. 

It was a ghostly walk. More than once I thought she 
would fall from my arm dead, but at last I placed her 
safely in her own room again, and rang for her maid. 


LADY LATIMER *S ESCAPE. 


57 


“ Lady Latimer is tired out,” 1 said; 44 she is completely 
exhausted. Get something for her, and let her go to rest.” 

The maid looked frightened at the white, set face. 

“You look very ill, my lady,” she said; but the woful 
eyes that looked into hers had no expression in them. 

I went back to the visitors, and to all whom it concerned 
I made apologies and excuses for Lady Latimer. I told 
them she was exhausted and worn out, and that I had per- 
suaded her to rest. No one seemed surprised, and then 1 
felt that the crisis was over. She was saved. 

44 You look tired yourself, Miss Lovel,” said Captain 
Fleming. 44 And what bad news this is about Colonel 
North.” 

“ What is it?” 1 asked, trying to speak carelessly, but 
with great alarm. 

4 4 He has to leave suddenly and early to-morrow morn- 
ing. He received a telegram this afternoon, but did not 
wish to tell us the news until the ball was over. We shall 
miss him very much.” 

“ We shall, indeed,” I answered, mechanically. 

“ He is in the smoking-room; he has spent the greater 
part of the night there. Would you like to see him and 
say good-bye to him, Miss Lovel?” 

I shuddered. Please Heaven, I should never look on 
his face again. I made some evasive answer. He looked 
hurt. 

“ I thought,” he said, 44 that you liked Colonel North 
so much. Lady Latimer does. I believe he is the favored 
guest.” 

44 What time does he leave in the morning?” 1 asked, 
for the sake of showing some interest in him. 

44 Quite early,” he replied. 44 He has to be at the Royal 
Horse Guards by noon. ” 

44 He will come back, 1 hope.” I knew he would not. 

I understood why he had returned to the house, and had 
gone to the smoking-room, where most of the guests could 
see him. Then, when the visitors were all gone, I went 
back to Lady Latimer’s room. I found her very ill. 1 
told the maid that I would sit with her and read her to 
sleep. 

44 1 do not like my lady’s looks at all. Miss Lovel/ said 
the maid. 44 1 am afraid that she has overdone herself. I 
should not wonder it she has a bad illness.” 


58 


lady Latimer’s escape. 

I sat with her the night through. She did not speak to 
me, she hardly seemed to know that I was present. She 
wept and moaned through the night in such a heart- 
breaking fashion it made me ill to listen. 

She did not hear, poor child, what I heard — the quick 
galloping of a horse in the early morning.. When it ceased 
I knew that Colonel North had gone. 

She was worse in the morning; brain fever set in; the 
doctor was sent for hurriedly. The visitors disappeared. 

Lord Latimer was frightened to death. 

“ Brain fever,” he said. 4 4 Why, brain fever only 
comes to those who have great trouble, and she has none 
in the world, absolutely none.” 

The doctor’s opinion was that Lady Latimer had over- 
tired herself with the Christmas festivities. 

44 She had Colonel North to help her,” said Lord Lati- 
mer; 44 1 do not see how she can have done too much.” 

But there was no gainsaying the fact. She was ill for a 
long time, and I was her faithful, loving nurse; but the 
name of Colonel North was never mentioned between us 
from that night. It was New Year’s Eve when Lady 
Latimer fell ill, and the violets were in bloom before she 
was able to leave the house again. 

44 1 want to go away from here, Audrey,” she said to 
me one day. 44 1 want to go out-of-doors, and 1 can not 
here; I can not endure the sight of this place, and the 
sound of the river makes me ill.” 

I understood., after that scene in the park; it was no 
wonder that she could not endure it. 

1 spoke to Lord Latimer, and he seemed pleased that 
she should have a change. We went to Brighton. I 
thought the life and brightness of that sunny watering- 
place would be good for her. I might as well have brought 
a dead body to the sea-side. 

Once, aud once only, terrible energy came to her. I 
was sitting on the cliff overlooking the sea, and she came 
to me suddenly, holding an open newspaper in her hands. 

44 1 have been looking for you,” she said. 1 want you 
to read this; it is your fault.” 

1 took the paper from her hands and read that- war had 
broken out at the Cape, and among others who had ex- 
changed to be sent out there was that well-known and 
highly esteemed officer. Colonel North. 


lady latimer's escape. 


59 


“ That is your fault,” she said. 

“ Do you see the honorable mention of him as a brave 
soldier and a noble man?” 

“ Yes, 1 do,” she answered. 

“ You may thank me for that,” I said; “ 1 saved him 
as well as you. English officers are men of honor, and if 
Colonel North had stolen the wife of his friend, they would 
not have associated with him.” 

Her face flushed and her head drooped. 

“ 1 wish,” said she, “ that I could fall ffom the cliff 
here into the sea.” • 

Decidedly; in those days, she was not the most pleasant 
companion in the world; but I knew the gnawiug misery. 

“ 1 wish,” she said to me one day, “ that Lord Latimer 
would leave Lorton’s Cray. 1 shall never like the place 
again.” 

But Lord Latimer would not. He said that he would 
do anything in reason, and nothing from caprice, so that 
she was compelled to return. Then followed a dead blank, 
a dreary, dull blank. The sad, sorrowful woman, mistress 
of Lorton’s Cray, did not in the least resemble the Lady 
Latimer of former days. I could not interest her, as 
formerly, in the boys, or in our simple home ways. She 
was simply a woman stricken by some terrible grief. I 
did my best, but it was all in vain. 1 could not cheer her 
or rouse her. It required a terrible calamity to do either. 
She had passed into a quiescent state. She made no allu- 
sion ever to the cause of her trouble. Colonel North’s 
name was never mentioned. 

Captain Fleming came once or twice, but he did not re- 
main long. He told me that he had never seen any one so 
changed as Lady Latimer. 

“ When I think of her leading the cotillon on New 
Year’s Eve, in that wonderful dress of blue velvet and 
pearls, and then look at her as she is now, I can not be- 
lieve she is the same woman,” he said. 

It required a great calamity to arouse her, and, surely 
enough, one came. It was the month of August, two 
years and a half after that terrible New Year’s Eve, aud I 
was sitting out among the roses making some lace for her.. 
I saw her coming toward me with a terrible look on her 
face. I was almost frightened. She wore a long white 
dress; her hair was unfastened, her face white as death; 


lady latimer's escape. 


• 60 

her eyes had an expression 1 shall never forget. She held 
oat a newspaper to me. 

“ Look/' she said, “ and read. Heaven has punished 
me." 

I looked. In the list of those killed at Isandula was the 
name of Colonel Philip North. 

“ You see it?" she said, slowly. 

“ Yes, I see it. Lady Latimer." 

“ It was you who sent him to his death." 

“ Better the death of a good man than the life of a 
coward," 1 answered. 

“ He has died," she said, slowly, “ because he loved 
me." 

“ No; that is wrong; he has died a soldier's death, and 
you may be proud of him. You can love him in death, 
whereas you could not in life. You may be proud of him, 
now he has redeemed by a hero's death what was a coward's 
crime." 

She cried out that 1 was hard and cruel; she wept as 1 
have never seen a woman weep before. 

“ I would go all the way to Isandula," she said, “ to 
kiss his face just once before they lay him in his grave." 

She was like a woman stricken with death. 

Captain Fleming came down in the same sunny month 
of August, and he talked for hours about one. who had 
been the hero of the fight. He told a hundred anecdotes 
of Colonel North, of his courage, his bravery, his kind- 
ness; how he was beloved by his friends, worshiped by the 
soldiers; how he was always ready with kindly words and 
generous help. 

She listened with a white, set face, and spoke no word. 

“I do not believe," said Captain Fleming, “ that he 
had a blot in his life." 

But we two women, who knew what a dark and terrible 
blot there had been, said nothing. 

Lady Latimer was like a woman turned into stone. 

Another great event happened in that sunny month o_ 
August. 

Lord Latimer died quite suddenly. He had been un- 
usually irritable, and complained of not being well, but 
no one suspected he was worse than usual. His valet, go- 
ing to wake him one morning, found him dead in his bed, 
and the doctor said he had been dead for some hours. 


LADY LATIMEJpS ESCAPE. 


61 


There was no need for any inquest; he had died from 
heart disease, from which he had suffered many years. 

It was a terrible blow to Lady Latimer; not that she 
loved him, but that it brought her sin and her sorrow so 
forcibly to her mind. 

“ How strange it seems that he should have died first,” 
she said to me one day. “ Oh, Audrey, God has punished 
my sin.” 

Then Lionel Fleming became Lord Latimer, and master 
of Lorton’s Cray. 

The old lord had left his wife a large fortune. 

“ I shall spend it all in charity,” she said to me. 
“ There is but one interest, one pleasure in life left, and 
that is doing good to others.” 

And it was perfectly true. If ever any woman tried to 
make up for a sin by charity and good deeds, Lady Lati- 
mer did. 

The new Lord Latimer begged of us to remain at Lor- 
ton’s Cray for some few months. He did not want to take 
possession until the spring of the year, and he prayed us 
to remain there. Lady Latimer consented, and we lived 
there in peace and seclusion until the Christmas snow was 
on the ground again and the New Year coming round. 


CHAPTEK XII. 

No one but myself knew how 1 dreaded that coming 
New Year for Lady Latimer. She had left off hating me 
now, poor darling; she told me she knew it had all come 
about for the best. 

“You acted rightly, Audrey,” she said to me one day, 
when the dismal snow was falling, falling as if it never 
meant to stop, and there was an unutterable stillness over 
everything round Lorton’s Cray. “ Quite right, for you 
are a good woman, and could not do otherwise; but I love 
his memory now, as 1 loved him in life. I feel as if I 
should almost win heaven if I could lie by his side in the 
grave. Ah! he has no grave; no — ” 

She burst into passionate weeping, and I could say noth- 
ing to comfort her; that dead man had been the only love 
of her life — the one worship that comes to us all sooner or 
later. Alas for those to whom, like her, it comes too late! 

She had been quietly content to stay at the old house. 


( )2 LADY LATIMER'S ESCAPE. 

wrapped up in her own sorrow and the good she was try- 
ing to do to all around her with her husband's legacy. 
She did not know that all heaven, as it seemed to me, lay 
at my feet, and 1 did not dare to stoop my hand and take 
it up. Lord Latimer found me alone in the cozy boudoir 
one dismal November day, when he came to see after some 
of the business of the estate, and almost before 1 knew 
what. he was talking about, he asked me to be his wife. 

My face spoke what my tongue could not utter, and he 
caught me in his arms and kissed me, not once, but a 
dozen times. 

“ I think we have understood each other all along, my 
darling," he said. “ Look me in the face and tell me that 
you will be my wife, Audrey, my own." 

1 did not say it; I remembered my mother's words, and 
hesitated. Presently I told him what was in my heart, 
and how I could never marry him without the consent of 
my parents, and I doubted its being given. It was not for 
me, Audrey Lovel, to aspire to be mistress of Lorton's 
Cray. Lord Latimer laughed, and said it was all nonsense. 

“ Your father will consent," he said. “ I will go to 
him to-day, and bring you his permission in an hour." 

But my father refused, flatly and uncompromisingly, 
and would give no reason; and I went home broken-hearted 
after I had seen my lover ride away, with a dark look of 
determination on his face, to ask for an explanation. 1 
knew what my dear mother's fear had been; that I should 
give my heart away and have nothing in return, that Lionel 
Fleming was only amusing himself by a flirtation with me; 
she did not know, dear mother, what a loyal heart she was 
misjudging. I heard hay father's reason, and it nearly 
broke nay heart. Never a rich man, he had been strug- 
gling for years with the difficulty of making both ends 
meet, and the boys had grown daily more expensive. He 
had seen a way, as he thought, by a safe speculation, to 
almost double his income by risking his small remaining 
capital; he had risked and lost. He had nothing now but 
his stipend, never enough to keep us in comfort; and 
mother was going to take in two boarders to spoil the dear 
home-circle, and the boys were to be sent out into the 
world as they grew old enough to fight the battle of life for 
themselves. 

1 understood the refusal now, and \ could feel with my 


63 


lady la timers escape. 

father in his sorrowful pride. We were a proud race, we 
Levels, and it would be said that the vicar had angled for 
the new Lord Latimer, and caught him for his daughter. 

Lionel pressed me very hard for the reason of the refusal; 
but I would not tell him — how could I?--that I was too 
poor to come to him even properly appointed as to outfit, 
if by any chance I should be allowed to marry him. 

“ I shall be back at the New Year, my darling,” he 
said, taking me in his arms, as if he had never met with 
any rebuff, “ and you will tell me then what it all means, 
and we will get out of the difficulty somehow.” 

I would not see him at the New Year; 1 made up my 
mind to that. No use for these heartaches, when no good 
could come of them; so I begged of Lady Latimer to let 
me go home for the holiday-time— it would be the last time 
we should be together, for the new state of things was to 
begin with the coming year, and home would be home no 
longer with strangers in it and the big boys away. 

She had some female friends coming to her for the holi- 
days — good women with missions and notions, and 1 did 
not feel at home with them somehow. She was taking to 
that sort of thing, though she was not half strong-minded 
enough for it; and I had very little in common with the 
people it brought me in contact with. There always 
seemed so much of self and so little of Christian charity in 
their proceedings that 1 had no sympathy with them; they 
could do very well without me. 

And so it came about that 1 was at home, very sad and 
heavy-hearted; but we were to have a wonderful New Year, 
after all. It was a winter of surprises. On Christmas 
morning there came the news, through my father’s lawyers, 
that the risky speculation had not been a risk after all, but 
a tremendous success. A check for a large sum was in- 
closed, and a request that at his leisure the Keverend 
Archibald Lovel would go to town and confer with them 
about the remainder. 

My father accepted it unsuspectingly. I had my doubts 
as to where the money came from, but I could not utter 
them. I expected I should see Lionel before long, and I 
did. 1 met him in the lane leading to the vicarage, and 
he bent down from his saddle, and said something about 
the silver lining turning up. 1 could not betray him. 


64 lady latimer’s escape. 

The revulsion of feeling after so much relief would have 
broken my father’s heart. 

So 1 was very happy when the last day of the old year 
dawned bright and clear, as it had dawned on that day 
that seemed in the far past now, though it was only three 
years ago. The day could never be otherwise than a sad. 
one for me, I thought; it will never be sad any more now. 

My father had been to London and learned that, instead 
of being a ruined man, as he believed, he was richer than 
he had been before; and I had won him over to say that 
perhaps, in the future, if things went well with him, he 
would withdraw the decisive 14 No ” that had been his 
answer to Lord Latimer. 1 knew what that meant; we 
only had to ask now, and the permission would be given. 
Lionel was coming to the vicarage in the evening, and then 
— ah, then! I could hardly persuade myself that it was all 
real, and that I should not wake from a blissful dream, 
and find the two boarders invading our happy home, aud 
the dear boys gone. 

It was growing dark, and I was sitting up in the old 
nursery, so full of childish memories of mischief and fun, 
when Millie, a tall slip of a girl now, and a person of im- 
mense importance in her own eyes, as the daughter of the 
house and mother’s right hand, came up with a mysterious 
look on her face. 

44 There’s some one asking for you, Audrey, dear,” she 
said. 

44 For me! Who is it?” I said, with a sudden chill at 
my heart, for I fancied something must have happened to 
Lionel. 

44 1 don’t know,” she said. 44 It is you he wants; I told 
him father and mother would not be long before they came 
in, but he does not want them.” 

44 Where is he?” 

44 In the hall.” 

Millie evidently did not think much of my mysterious 
visitor. 1 hastened down, and there, under the lamp, 
stood a tall, white-haired man, rather shabbily dressed, 
who turned sharply as he heard my footsteps, and spoke 
in a voice choked with tears, it seemed to me. 

44 Miss Lovel,” he said, 44 1 have come to you for news 
before 1 go any further— I have come straight from the 
ship. How is she? Where is she? I know that he is 


lady latimer’s escape. 


G5 


dead, or I should not be here. For Heaven’s sake, tell me 
that she is alive and well— and free, or I shall go mad!” 

Who was speaking to me? What familiar voice was 
sounding in my ears? Why did the face of this stranger 
with the snowy hair take the shape of that dead man’s 
features, and his eyes look at me with the eyes of the man 
whose anger I braved on that bitter winter’s night? 1 
stared at him, feeling as if I were turning into stone. 

“Colonel North!” I gasped out, “is it you, or ami 
going mad?” 

He answered something; 1 saw his lips move, but the 
floor of the hall seemed to be rising up to meet me, and 
the walls and the dancing fire-light to be joining in a wild 
whirl. I heard a voice say something about having fright- 
ened me, and then the tall figure vanished in a sort of 
mist, and everything was black around me. It was in 
Lionel’s arms that 1 came back to life; my head was on 
his shoulder, and my mother was standing by my side. 

“ Yes, it is true, dear,” she said, answering the question 
my eyes asked. “ The colonel is not dead, he has come 
back after almost incredible hardships and escapes. He 
did not intend to frighten you so.” 

He came to my side, a wan shadow of a man, utterly 
unlike the glorious specimen of manhood that I remem- 
bered so well, and when I was quite myself again, he asked 
me if Lady Latimer would welcome him. 

“ I should like to know that she forgives me,” he said, 
sadly. “ If there can never be anything more between us, 
it would be a comfort to know that.” 

Perhaps I was wrong to tell him how she had mourned 
him, but he wanted a crumb of comfort so badly, and I 
gave it to him. He shook his head. 

“ She will only think of me as she remembers me,” he 
said. “ 1 am a poor, maimed creature, not fit for a gentle 
eye like hers to look at.” 

“If there were only enough left of you to hold your 
soul, she would love you all the same,” I said. 

It was an incautious speech, but it was true. 

They made me go to Lorton’s Cray to break the great 
news to my poor darling. 1 don’t know how 1 did it, but 
I had not said half a dozen words before she guessed, and 
gaVe a great cry. 1 thought she would faint or go into 
violent hysterics; but she did not. 

3 


66 


LADY LATIMER'S ESCAPE. 


“ Bring him, Audrey," she said, “ and if the sight of 
him does not kill me with joy, heaven will have begun for 
me from this hour." 

"We brought him to her, Lionel and 1, and shut the door 
on that meeting; it was not for auy one to intrude on her 

joy- 

The story of the colonel’s wonderful escape and the ad- 
ventures he went through afterward, before he could get 
away from his captors, is public property, and need not be 
repeated here; he had been found alive under circum- 
stances that the natives thought miraculous, and they took 
possession of him as a sort of deity, an invulnerable creat- 
ure whom nothing could kill. It was long before he could 
get away — he was watched too closely; and when he did, it 
was only to lie ill of fever for many months in a hospital 
at Cape Town. When he got well, he came straight back 
to England and to the woman he had loved and wronged, 
hearing in South Africa of the death of her husband. 

There is nothing more to tell; what should there be? I 
finish this story on the eve of two weddings. For some 
time past there has been all sorts of preparation going on 
in King's Lorton, for everything that we two brides have, 
provided that the dear old town can furnish, has been pro- 
cured there. The church is decorated with flowers, and 
the autumn sun shines clear and bright, for August has 
come round again. The year of Lady Lorton's widowhood 
is over, and to-morrow will see her the wife of the only 
man who ever had her heart. 

And it is my to-morrow, too. I shall come out of the 
old church Lady Latimer. Lionel would take no more 
nays, and my father will help the bishop, who wis once his 
school-fellow and chum, to marry me to the man of my 
choice. What has the future in store for us, I wonder? 
Nothing but happiness, if 1 may trust the songs of the 
birds and the sweet breath of the flowers that come in to 
me through the windows. I must go home now; 1 have 
plenty to do yet; but 1 had come to make a last arrange- 
ment with Lady Latimer— she will be my aunt to-morrow, 
by the wav— a funny idea— and I have kept the pony-car- 
riage waiting an unconscionable time. Lionel and Colonel 
North are to sleep at the hotel to-night, and will see US’ no 
more till we meet them in all our bravery at the altar. It 


lady latimer’s escape. 


67 

is time the colonel went. I can hear his voice singing in 
the drawing-room— all his sufferings have not spoiled that. 

“ The arrow to the quiver, 

And the wild bird to the tree; 

The stream to. meet the river, 

And the river to the sea. 

The waves are wedded to the beach, 

And the shadows to the sea; 

And like to like, and each to each, 

And I — to thee.” 

And the memory of the last time I heard him sing that 
song is all blotted out in the joy and happiness of the 
present, and the future stretches before us, unbroken by a 
pain, unshadowed by a cloud. 


THE END. 




A FATAL TEMPTATION, 


CHAPTER I. 

The two doctors, although nearly of the same age, and 
living in the same place, had always more or less disliked 
each other. But when the shadow of death hung over the 
younger and less prosperous one, the elder man relented 
and became his friend. For many years Stephen Leigh 
had been the only doctor in Seafield. He had saved 
money enough to purchase Seafield House, a carriage, and 
a fine pair of horses. Just as he was thinking of advertis- 
ing for a partner to undertake the more laborious work, a 
new doctor, to his great annoyauce, came to the town. Dr. 
John Blantire, as he called himself, took a house just out- 
side Seafield, named The Laurels; he had no carriage, nor 
did he seem to have much money; but he was clever. No 
one ever heard him laugh; he seemed to have but one 
pleasure in his life, that was his love for his fair-haired 
little son, a boy of seven when John Blantire first came to 
Seafield. 

For seven years Dr. Blantire fought his way; then all at 
once he seemed to grow tired of the struggle, and became 
seriously ill. During this time there had been a sharp 
contest between the two medical men. Stephen Leigh, so 
long established, so well known, seemed always to have 
the best of it; but of late some of the leading families in 
Seafield had sent for John Blantire, whose manner had a 
charm of its own. Then Stephen Leigh spoke bitterly of 
his rival, and John Blantire, hearing of it, spoke more bit- 
terly still. Matters went from bad to worse until John 
Blantire fell ill and sent for his rival to attend him. He 
was beyond all earthly help, as Dr. Leigh saw at once. 

There was no rivalry then; all ill-feeling disappeared in 


?0 A FATAL TEMPTATION. 

the presence of death. Stephen Leigh, bending over him, 
told him that he would not live beyond sunset; but the 
look that came over the dying man's face was not of sor- 
row or regret. 

“ You will see to my boy," he said, feebly. “ We have 
not been good friends, you and I. I have been in your 
way; but instinct tells me you are a just and honorable 
man; you have no son of your own, you will befriend 
mine." 

Stephen Leigh promised that he would do so; he had 
always liked the boy — he had always longed for a son of 
his own, and in some measure this little lad would fill the 
blank. 

When the promise was given, John Blantire raised his 
eyes to the doctor's face, and, for the first time, mentioned 
his wife. 

“lam glad to die," he said. “ 1 have not cared to live 
since 1 lost my wife. I loved her with all my heart. She 
was a gentlewoman, highly connected. She — she — was 
my patient, when quite a young girl. I abused my trust. 
She — ah, poor child! — she loved me so — and 1 ran away 
with her! She died when Laurence was born. She had 
just one year of perfect happiness. I have been tired of 
life ever since; but, for the boy's sake, I have struggled 
on. Now 1 am worn out. You will take care of my 
son?" 

“ I will," answered Stephen Leigh; and, cold, practical, 
devoid of romance or sentiment, as he believed himself to 
be, he was greatly touched when father and son bid each 
other farewell. 

Dr. Leigh carried out the dead man’s instructions; the 
small sum of money which he had left was judiciously in- 
vested, and served to defray the expenses of the boy’s edu- 
cation. 

Stephen Leigh had always been one of the leading mem- 
bers of the pretty little sea-side town. He was a widower, 
with one daughter, a tall, handsome girl, the belle of the 
neighborhood, who was vain as she was handsome, and 
who, young as she was, possessed no small opinion of her 
own merits. 

To Seafield House, when he had finished his education, 
Laurence Carr Blantire came home. Dr. Leigh was not 
a generous man. His heart had been touched when his 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


71 


rival died; but he had not felt at all inclined to be lavish 
to his rival’s son. He spent the sum left to pay for the 
boy’s education; but he had never added one shilling to it; 
he had never given the lad one tip — had never sent him a 
' hamper to school. He had been strictly just, but never in 
the least degree generous. 

He had set aside a small sum, barely sufficient for the 
purpose, to find Laurence in clothes and pocket-money; 
and it was arranged between them that Laurence should 
live with him, give him all the assistance in his power; 
while the doctor should teach him all that he knew, take 
him out to visit patients, and qualify him for his profes- 
sion, with the prospect of taking him into partnership. 

Dr. Leigh had always regretted that he had no son. He 
was proud and fond of his daughter; but, practically 
speaking, she was of no use to him; she could neither help 
in the business, nor could she succeed him, and the stern 
old doctor often thought, with a vague wonder, how strange 
it was that his rival’s son should take the place of a son of 
his own. 

Laurence Blantire had been living under Dr. Leigh's 
roof two years now. He had worked hard during that 
period, and he had suffered, too, for, with his crippled 
means, he had been unable to indulge in any of the pleas- 
ures and pursuits common to youth. It was but natural, 
therefore, that he should rejoice that the time had come 
when he would be able to earn sufficient money to live like 
a gentleman. His mother had been a Carr, and from her 
he inherited not only the family pride, but his aristocratic 
tastes, his fine, innate sense of delicacy, to say nothing of 
his personal attractions. 

The poor people of Seafield knew no more pleasant or 
cheery sight than the young doctor’s handsame face; he 
was welcomed everywhere. More than once, people who 
dared take the liberty had suggested jestingly to Dr. Leigh 
that it was not improbable a marriage might take place 
between his ward and his daughter. But the old man 
knew better. He understood Marion’s character, and had 
no fear whatever that she would bestow her affections on 
so insignificant a person as an obscure country practitioner. 
These two— one a handsome young man, high-spirited, 
genial, and clever, the other a witty, accomplished, and 
beautiful girl— had lived together for two years without 


72 


A FATAL TEMPTATION". 


the smallest attempt at flirtation. The young doctor had 
never raised admiring eyes to Marion, and she had never 
deigned to think of him in the light of a possible suitor. 

Marion Leigh’s chief characteristic was a most unheroic 
one — a worship of rank and wealth. She was both vain 
and ambitious. She would have done almost anything to 
secure a bow from Lady Pemberton, of Pemberton Court, 
or from the old Countess of Haredale, both of whom were 
her father’s patients—both of whom, too, lived in the 
neighborhood. The Countess of Haredale was still fond 
of society, and, at stated intervals, Erceldine, where she 
lived, was filled with guests. 

At these times Marion was a prey to envy and jealousy. 
Her one great desire was that she might receive an invita- 
tion to some of the festivities that took place on these oc- 
casions. She had the greatest faith in her own charms, 
and she believed that, if she had an opportunity of display- 
ing them, her fortune would be made. Young as she was, 
she had already given up all thoughts of love as. unprofit- 
able; to win for herself the highest position and the greatest 
wealth was the end and aim of her existence. 

No wonder, then, that Miss Leigh regarded Laurence 
Plan tire coldly, that she failed to recognize any charm in 
his genial manner. There was to be no nonsense, she had 
decreed to herself, when he came to live at Seafield House, 
and there had been no nonsense. Nor was the young 
student inclined for any. The calm, dark eyes that looked 
down on him from such a height were powerless to move 
him. The exquisite coloring of the handsome face, the 
grace of the tall figure, were alike unheeded by him. They 
never disagreed; they seldom even spoke to each other. 
Marion prided herself on keeping the young man at a dis- 
tance, and Laurence respected her evident wish that there 
should be as little as possible in common between them. 

At present, Marion Leigh’s ambitious desires had not 
met with their fulfillment. Neither Lady Pemberton nor 
the Countess of Haredale had taken the least notice of her. 
Both ladies were glad enough to send for the doctor when 
his services were required; but neither of them had the 
faintest notion of cultivating the acquaintance of his 
daughter. Marion had besought her father to make some 
slight allusion to her to the ladies; and, with a cynical 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


73 


smile on his face, the old man had done so, but without 
producing the desired effect. Still Marion did not despair. 
* * * * * * * 

Seafield House was beautifully situated. It stood on 
the summit of a hill that overlooked the sea. Along the 
front of the house ran a long, wide, old-fashioned veranda, 
with pillars of twisted iron. There, one morning, stood 
Laurence Blantire. He was looking over the sea with that 
longing and passion for change and travel that spring in 
the heart of youth at the sight of the broad expanse of 
ocean. And there Ur. Leigh, coming out to smoke his 
morning cigar, found him, and took his seat in the veranda 
beside him. 

“ Laurence,” said the doctor, slowly, “ we have nothing 
very important in hand just now — no cases that require 
particular care and attention?” 

“ No,” replied the young student; “ there appears to 
be very little illness about.” 

“ If there is nothing to prevent my doing so, I thought 
of going to London for three days,” the doctor continued. 
“I should like to attend a meeting that takes place to- 
morrow. Do you think you could manage in my absence?” 

“ I think so, sir,” replied Laurence. 

“ Then I shall go by the next train,” Dr. Leigh said; 
“ so that I have not many minutes to spare. By the way, 
Laurence, 1 do not interfere much with your pursuits and 
companions; but I was sorry to see you with Captain Walsh 
the other day.” 

Laurence looked up with laughing eyes. 

“What is wrong with Captain Walsh, sir?” he asked. 
“ He seems to me a good sort of fellow.” 

“ Notwithstanding, if you will take my advice, you will 
have nothing to do with either Walsh or Squire Bedfern; 
they are not fit associates for you. And I was sorry to 
hear that you had been seen with both of them.” 

“ It is quite true, sir,” returned Laurence, with an un- 
easy laugh. “ I was with them three or four .times last 
week; we played billiards. It is dull at times, and 1 am 
glad of a change. Captain Walsh is a droll fellow, and I 
must say that J enjoy his society.” 

The doctor looked with something like compassion at 
the young man beside him. 


74 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


“ Take care what you are doing, Laurence,” he said. 
“ Remember, I have warned you.” 

“ I will remember, sir,” he answered, his face flushing 
as he spoke. “ They can not do me any harm.” 

“ I shall be late,” the doctor remarked, hurriedly, tak- 
ing out his watch and looking at it. “ I meant to have 
called at the bank; but I shall not have time. Will you 
go for me, Laurence?” 

“ With pleasure, sir,” the young man replied; and again 
the dark-blue eyes wandered to the sunlit sea; perhaps he, 
too, longed to be going away. The doctor took out a 
pocket-book. 

“ I want you to pay this fifty pounds in to my account,” 
he said. “ You need not go to-day, if you are busy or 
pressed for time; but do not be later than Thursday with 
it. You will be careful, Laurence?” 

“Yes, sir,” said Laurence; and then the doctor rose, 
shook hands with him, and went his way, leaving the 
young man still standing and looking out over the sunlit 
waters, his mind filled with a hundred vain longings. 

By and by, with a sigh, he withdrew his gaze and turned 
into the house, making his way to the surgery. 

Every detail of that day, from the time he spent in the 
veranda to the hour in which he returned to Seafield 
House, plunged into the very depths of despair, was vividly 
impressed upon Laurence Blantire’s mind. As he quitted 
Seafield House, Miss Thornton, a poor relation of the doc- 
tor, who lived with him, and was supposed to help in the 
housekeeping, passed him with a smile. 

“ A beautiful morning, Mr. Blantire,” she said. She 
had a profound admiration for the handsome young 
student. 

He passed proud Marion Leigh, who stood in the en- 
trance hall with a basket of flowers in her hand. He just 
glanced at the picture — the exquisite coloring of the hand- 
some face, the morning-dress of primrose hue, the scarlet 
blooms that filled the pretty basket. 

“ Good-morning, Mr. Blantire,” she said, haughtily. 
Her father’s assistant was less to her than the dust beneath 
her feet; and she considered the time spent in speaking to 
him wasted.. She hardly allowed her eyes to linger on 
him. 

“Good-morning, Miss Leigh,” he replied. And he 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


75 


thought that it was a great pity her pride should repulse, 
while her beauty attracted. Then he went on his way, 
humming softly: 

“ If she he not fair to me, 

What care I how fair she be?” 

All through that glorious day, when his pulses were 
bounding and he longed to be free, he plodded through 
his duty, though at times he did raise his handsome young 
face with an air of weariness to the blue skies. 

While he was on his way to St. Margaret's Bay, where 
one of the fishermen lay ill", he came to the turning that 
led to Pemberton Court, the residence of Lady Pemberton, 
where he saw a little pony-carriage, with a pair of cream- 
colored ponies, whose silver harness glittered in the sun. 
The carriage was empty, and a groom stood at the heads 
of the ponies. 

Carelessly enough, Laurence wondered whose carriage it 
was — wondered why it was empty; and then, looking down 
the green lane, he saw a young girl, a girl slender and 
dainty, with a face of marvelous beauty and fairness, with 
hair that seemed to have caught the sunbeams captive, and 
large, dark, violet eyes. She did not look more than six- 
teen; and she had left the little pony-carriage for the pur- 
pose of gathering some woodbine, the perfume of which 
filled the air. She wore a dainty green-and-white dress, 
and soft white plumes shaded her beautiful face. 

She was intent upon gathering the woodbine, she neither 
saw nor heard him— and.he stood still to gaze at her. He 
had seen nothing like her — and he had not dreamed that 
there was anything so fair in the world. 

Presently she turned to the groom, and said, brightly: 

“ I think I have enough now, Thorpe." 

The next minute she was seated in the little carriage, 
and had driven out of his sight. 

The roll of *-he carriage-wheels had died away, and still 
Laurence stood there, as if rooted to the spot. The sum- 
mer morning had brought a new element into his life, his 
heart was beating as it had never done before. He had, 
for the first time, an idea of what the words “ youth," 
“ beauty," and “ love '' meant. 

He had many patients still to see, and it was six o'clock 
before he reached Seafield House, tired and worn with a 


A FATAL TEMPTATION". 


70 

hard day’s work. He dined alone; Miss Leigh had gone 
out. When dinner was over, he felt refreshed; but the 
house was lonely. 

He was restless still; vague, beautiful dreams and possi- 
bilities were opening out to him, a change sweet and subtle 
seemed to have come to him; he wanted some one to whom 
he could speak; he could not bear solitude. Why should 
he, when the summer wind and the summer sea seemed to 
woo him? He put aside his book and went out; and, as 
he strolled along the beach, he met suddenly, walking arm 
in arm together, Squire Redfern and Captain Walsh. 

The doctor's warning returned to Laurence's mind, and 
his manner was cold and stiff. Both gentlemen noticed it; 
perhaps it was because they felt some little pique that they 
resolved that he should go with them. 

“We are just going to the Pemberton Arms for a game 
at billiards," said Squire Redfern. “ Come with us, 
Laurence;" and, while he was thinking what excuse he 
could make to evade them, Captain Walsh laughed, and 
the sneer in his laugh annoyed the young fellow. 

“ Laurence looks like a good boy to-night," he said, 
“ and not at all inclined to naughty ways. At some other 
time he will join us." 

A quick flush dyed Laurence's face. 

“ I do not see why I should not go with you to-night, as 
well as at any other time. Captain Walsh," he replied, 
falling quickly into the trap laid for him. 

Captain Walsh did not like the young fellow; he hated 
him for his high principle and honor, his integrity and 
good temper; any one of these qualities seemed like a re- 
proach to him, who had none of them. Squire Redfern, 
on the contrary, appreciated his honest simplicity of 
character, and always enjoyed an hour or two with him. 

“ We must not play for high stakes," said the captain, 
with another sneer, as they gathered round the billiard- 
table at the Pemberton Arms. 

The squire acquiesced. Some men might have been 
moved to pity by the new expression of awakening life on 
the handsome young face; not 20 Captain Walsh. He only 
wondered if the young fellow really had any money; if so, 
he decided in his own mind that this was the time to win 
it, for he seemed restless and agitated. The captain called 
for a bottle of champagne. He insisted that Laurence. 


A FATAL TEMPTATION - . 


77 


should drink a glass; as he did so, the young student 
thought of the lovely face bent over the woodbiue — and he 
drank to it. His veins seemed to thrill with new life, his 
heat to beat with new vigor. He played, and won. Suc- 
cess emboldened him; he played again, and lost; then 
prudence whispered to him it was time to give over. 

Once more the sneer on the cold, cynical face of Captain 
Walsh stung him into doing what was wrong; he stayed 
on and played again; this time he won. The captain and 
the squire both complimented him on his success, and he 
himself grew intoxicated by it. 

“Laurence,” Squire Redfern said, presently, “this is 
slow work. Come home with me to the Manor House — 
you and Captain Walsh. We will have supper and a game 
at loo.” 

Again he would have declined, but that he heard his 
evil genius. Captain Walsh, say something in a low voice 
to the squire about playing with “ penniless boys.” All 
the hot blood of the Carrs seemed suddenly to burn in his 
veins. 

“ I will teach him that I am no lad,” he thought. “ 1 

will play, and I will beat him.” Then he turned to the 

squire. “ The doctor is from home,” he said. “ It is 

dull at Seafield House, b iug alone, and I shall be very 

pleased to spend a few hours with you.” 

The good spirits who watch over the souls of the tempt- 
ed might have wept over him as he walked away between 
his two false friends. 


CHAPTER II. 

When the three had done justice to a recherche little 
supper, the footman arranged the card-table. The room 
in which they sat was the picture of comfort and luxury. 
The light of the lamps fell upon the genial, indifferent 
countenance of the squire, upon the cold, cynical features 
of the captain, and upon the handsome, Hushed face of 
Laurence. 

“ It is a warm night,” said the squire. “ We will have 
some champagne-cup.” 

“We must be cautious how we take it,” laughed the 
captain; and then the game at loo began. 

Laurence won a few pounds; he was bewildered and in- 


78 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


toxicated with his success. His heart beat, his pulses 
throbbed, he forgot the warnings of the old doctor. Ilis 
musical voice rang out in loud, cheery words— in genial 
laughter. The squire looked at him admiringly, the cap- 
tain cynically. The spirit of the champagne-cup seemed 
to enter into" the game. The squire, who drank deeply at 
all times, grew reckless; the captain, on the contrary, be- 
came more cautious. 

Once more Laurence heard him say something in an 
under-tone to the squire about “ loss of time/’ and “ boys 
without money.’’ 

“ I will teach him,” said Laurence to himself, “ that I 
can play and pay.” 

Luck seemed with him; he won still more. Then the 
captain doubled the stakes. He, in his turn, resolved to 
humiliate the young fellow whom he had called a “ penni- 
less boy;” he knew exactly how to do it. 

“ I hope,” he said, sneeringly, “ that we are not play- 
ing too high for you.” 

Laurence’s cheeks crimsoned; he felt that he almost 
hated this man, who treated him so contemptuously. He 
played again, more recklessly still this time — and won; 
then he lost. In a little while he had paid away all his 
winnings; and presently the captain remarked: 

“ You owe me five pounds now. No, let me see — five 
pounds seven.” 

“ You owe me five pounds!” The words went through 
him like an electric shock. Five pounds, and he had not 
one shilling! He had been boasting that he could play 
and pay. Was that cold, cynical man to gloat and triumph 
over him because he could not pay? A thousand times 
no! He could hardly- understand how he had lost; only a 
few minutes since, and he had several sovereigns in his 
hand— now those same sovereigns were lying in a little 
heap at the captain’s right hand. Laurence saw an ugly 
smile on the captain’s lips, and suddenly he remembered 
that he had with him the doctor’s fifty pounds, all in gold, 
and untouched. He had not found time to take it to the 
bank. So great was his excitement, so intense the strain 
upon every nerve, that he did not think for the moment 
that he was doing wrong — he would pay the five pounds 
out of the doctor’s money, and refund it. 

He did not stop to ask himself how he would be able to 


A FATAL TEMPTATION". 


79 


do this. Without any hesitation, he opened the pocket- 
book and took from it five pounds. It was a triumphant 
moment, in which he saw the expression of the captain's 
face change from cold, cruel cynicism to one of respect. 

“ You play well, and you pay well. This is not your 
first game at loo!" exclaimed the captain, as though seized 
with a sudden admiration for his skill. 

Laurence felt that he was no longer being laughed at; 
and he did not pause just then to think of anything else. 
He was quite unconscious that the captain could wind him 
round his little finger. And Laurence played on and on 
until every sovereign was lost. Then a cold shudder passed 
over him, and with a white, set face he rose. 

“ I must go,” he said, huskily; “ it is late.” 

“We must not keep you any longer,” returned the 
squire, rising also, while the captain added: 

“ 1 do not know when I have enjoyed a game more,” 
which, considering he had won over fifty pounds, was 
probably true. 

If he saw the ghastly color of the young man's face, and 
the anguish in his eyes, he made no comment. It mat- 
tered little enough to him; he had won a considerable sum 
of money, and that was all he cared for; nor did the squire 
remark how the young fellow's lips quivered as he bid him 
“ Good-night,” raising his head proudly. 

“ Good-night,” said the squire. “ I hope we shall see 
you again.” The truth was that his devotion to the 
champagne-cup had been so great, he hardly realized how 
much money had been lost or won. “ Any time,” he add- 
ed, “ that you wish to spend an hour or two pleasantly, 
make your way to the Manor House.” 

“ Good-night,” repeated the captain; and then Laurence 
passed out. The next moment he was standing under the 
light of the stars, dike one bewildered. Until that moment 
he had not realized what he had done. That he had spent 
the doctor’s money, and had no possible means of replac- 
ing it — the bare fact in all its horror was before him now. 
He who had never in his whole life wronged any one, who 
had never touched one penny piece that was not his own, 
had stolen fifty pounds! He had been so excited, so car- 
ried away, so desperate, so reckless, that he had forgotten 
everything; and now he stood there under the light of the 
stars, branded “ thief.” 


80 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


Cold drops of moisture gathered on his brow. What 
was he to do? Where should he turn for help? What 
was to become of him? For the first time in his life he 
realized how utterly desolate and lonely he was — how 
friendless. There was not one to whom he could turn in 
his anguish. He knew that the old doctor, would never 
spare him— he would have condemned his own son in the 
same circumstances. 

What should he do? It was in vain he said to himself 
that he had not thought of what he was doing, in vain he 
tried to excuse himself. His very heart was sick with 
despair, his whole body trembled, yet the physical anguish 
was nothing compared with the anguish of mind, the fever 
of heart and brain. If he could but recall those last few 
hours, if he could but undo what he had done! 

He never knew how he reached home; he remembered 
that, as he went up the broad staircase, he met Miss 
Thornton, who looked up in wonder at his wild, white 
face. 

“You are ill, Mr. Blantire!” she said. 

“No,” he replied, “1 am only tired;” but the voice 
that spoke was not like his own, it sounded like nothing 
human; and he passed on to the terrible solitude of his 
own room. 

No sleep came that night to the weary eyes of Laurence 
Dlantire. Now that the mad excitement was ended, and 
the ugly, horrible truth lay before him, he was at a loss 
how to proceed. If, when the doctor had placed that fifty 
pounds in his hands, any one had even hinted that he could 
misapply or use for his own purpose one penny of it, he 
would have been most indignant; he could with difficulty 
realize even now how it happened that he had yielded so 
suddenly to this most terrible temptation. It seemed to 
him like some fearful dream. 

How was he to face the day with its terrors? How was 
he to work with this suspense and dread tearing at his 
heart-strings? One thing was certain — he must get the 
money somewhere, and refund it. He must pay it into the 
bank before Dr. Leigh’s return; otherwise he would never 
be able to face the man whose trust he had so miserably 
betrayed. But where could he obtain such a sum as fifty 
pounds? Who would give or lend it to him? He had but 
four-and-twenty hours in which to find it, and before he 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 81 

could give his attention to his own affairs, he must execute 
his ordinary duties. 

“ Mr. Blantire is ill, 1 am sure,” Miss Thornton ob- 
served, the next morning, to Marion, with some anxiety. 
“ His face looks quite haggard.” 

“ Being a doctor,” Miss Leigh replied, coolly, “ he must 
know quite well what to prescribe for himself.” What 
mattered the health or the look of her father’s assistant to 
her? 

As the hours of the long, terrible day wore on, wild 
thoughts came to Laurence Blantire. Death in any shape 
would be easier than to face disgrace and ruin. 

He was crossing the road that led to the beach when he 
heard the clock strike four; the sound of each stroke smote 
upon his heart like a death-knell. The bank closed at 
four, and to-morrow Dr. Leigh would b« home again. He 
knew then that all day long he had been sustained by a 
false hope, a wild, delusive idea that out of the very great- 
ness of his trouble help must come. 

Now the bank was closed, and a wave of anguish swept 
over his soul. If ever a bitter price were paid for sin, he 
paid it in that hour; but it was not until he reached home 
once more and gave himself up to his thoughts that the 
fullness of his ruin came before him. No idea of appeal- 
ing to the doctor’s mercy occurred to him; he knew it 
would be useless to ask him for pity or forgiveness. The 
doctor was just; but for such a crime as that he would 
have no toleration or compassion. 

The manager of the bank was a kind-hearted, generous 
man; he wondered, if he went to him, whether he would 
be able to help him. Perhaps, considering the fact of his 
youth, of the great temptation, he might be pitiful to him. 

“ Yet,” cried the despairing voice in his heart, “ it is a 
forlorn hope; there is only one sure way of escape.” 
True, death was a coward’s resource; but fie had proved 
himself a coward already. He believed that if he wrote to 
the doctor, making a confession of his crime, at the same 
time begging him not to make it public, and afterward 
destroyed himself, he would grant that prayer, although 
in life he would not spare him. 

“ Marion,” said Miss Thornton, the same evening, 
“ have you noticed anything strange in Mr. Blantire?” 


82 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


“ I am not in the habit of taking any interest in my 
father’s assistant,” was the haughty reply. 

“ 1 feel quite concerned about him,” continued Miss- 
Thornton, meditatively. “ He has the appearance of one 
who is suffering deeply from some cause, mental or phys- 
ical, and 1 am rather inclined to think the latter. I do not 
think he went to bed at all last night, for 1 awoke several 
times, and heard him pacing his room restlessly.” 

Miss Leigh smiled coldly. 

“ My dear cousin,” she said, “ young men of that age 
can be trusted to look after themselves; and I doubt if 
Mr. Blantire is one who would take anything greatly to 
heart.” 

“ But, my dear, I am sure that there is something wrong 
— that something is troubling Mr. Blantire,” persisted Miss 
Thornton. 

“ Depend upon it,” lightly, “it is a mere delusion on 
your part,” replied Marion. 

Miss Leigh said to herself, over and over again, that 
Miss Thornton must be mistaken; and even were she not 
— if Laurence Blantire had some hidden sorrow, what had 
it to do with her? So she resumed her novel; but she 
could not quite banish the young doctor from her mind — 
the book had lost its interest. She had not infrequently 
been annoyed by the noise that Laurence made, singing 
and whistling. She remembered suddenly that she had 
not heard his voice once that day. Miss Tffornton had 
gone to her own room with a nervous headache, and 
Marion sat alone; no sound came from the surgery, or 
from the young man’s room — the very spirit of silence 
reigned in the house. 

So, there was not a sound. For in his terrible despair 
Laurence had made up his mind to destroy himself, and 
he sat silently meditating in what manner he should ac- 
complish his object. It was of qo use wasting time in vain 
regrets; he had sinned, and he must pay the penalt} T . If 
he lived, the story of the young assistant who had appro- 
priated his master’s money to pay his gambling debts 
would be told far and near; if he died, it would be hushed 
up, and he would be forgiven. 

And now the question was, what mode of death should 
he choose? It would be easy enough to take a small dose 
of prussic acid, and he would be dead in a few seconds; yet 


A FATAL TEMPTATION". 


83 


he turned with a faint shudder from that picture. lie 
would not be poisoned like a rat in a hole; he would die 
where the fresh breezes blew upon him. 

He took up a revolver — one the doctor always kept 
loaded in the house — and scanned it curiously. Yes; he 
would walk far out on to the sands, where the rocks raised 
their jagged heads at low tide; he would use the revolver 
there, and the waves would carry his body out to sea. A 
thousand times better this than he should sleep in a dis- 
honored grave. His letter to the doctor lay upon the 
table; he put the revolver into his pocket, and, without 
one backward look, opened the door of his room and passed 
out. 


CHAPTER III. 

Marion" Leigh, while trying to forget Miss Thornton’s 
words and give her undivided attention to her book, was 
startled by hearing some one descend the staircase — some 
one who evidently did not wish to be heard, for the steps 
were slow and hushed. Glancing at the clock on the man- 
tel-piece, she saw that the hands pointed to eleven, and 
wondered a little who could be going out at this late hour, 
unless indeed some one were ill, and the young doctor had 
been summoned. She hastily laid down her book, and 
went into the hall. There she encountered Laurence 
Blantire, and was at once struck by the ghastly pallor of 
his face and the wild despair in his eyes. 

“ What is the matter?” she cried, involuntarily. 

He tried to pass her with a bow, for he dared not trust 
himself to speak. 

“ Where are you going? — what is the matter?” Marion 
persisted. 

Again he would have passed her; but Marion, feeling 
vaguely alarmed at his wild appearance, and recollecting, 
perhaps. Miss Thornton’s words, hastily interposed between 
him and the door, thus forming a barrier to his egress. 
So, for some few minutes, they stood looking at each other 
in perfect silence. 

Then, for the first time in her life, Marion Leigh laid 
her hand, on Laurence’3 arm, and looked with anxious, 
kindly eyes into his face. 


84 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


“ Trust me,” she said, gentty. “ 1 see there is some- 
thing wrong. Where are you going, Mr. Blantire?” 

“ 1 can not tell you/' he replied; “ pray do not detain 
me longer. Let me go.” 

“ Not until you have told me where you are going at 
this hour of night,” she said, firmly. 

“ I am going,” he returned, slowly, “ to put an end to 
my wretched existence.” 

If she felt any fear, she did not show it; at that moment 
she rose superior to herself. 

“ No man should take his life; it is not his own to do as 
he pleases with,” she said, earnestly. 

“ Mine is utterly valueless!” he cried, despairingly. 

Again Marion Leigh touched his arm. 

“ Come with me,” she urged. “ I will not keep you 
long.” 

He did not try to resist her, but allowed her to lead him 
back to the drawing-room where she had been sitting. 
Mechanically he took the chair she pushed toward him. 

“ Now, will you tell me what your trouble is?” Miss 
Leigh asked, gently. “I am sorry for you. I want to 
help you, and will help you if I can.” 

“ You are very good,” he answered, looking at her with 
haggard eyes; “ but, if what I have done seems to me so 
horrible that it drives me to death, how can I tell you?” 

“ Trust me,” she said, earnestly; “ whatever your secret 
may be, I will keep it.” 

And then he told her his story in a low, shamed voice — 
told her of the doctor's warning, of his neglect of that 
warning, of his temptation, and his fall. 

“ I,” he added, “ who have hitherto preserved my honor 
untarnished, have branded myself ‘ thief,' and 1 can not 
bear the weight of my shame.” 

Miss Leigh listened gravely and intently. 

“You have committed a great wrong,” she said, when 
he ceased speaking; “ but it was not like a premeditated 
evil. I can quite understand the suddenness of the tempta- 
tion, and you yielded to it in a reckless moment.” She 
was silent for some minutes, her gaze bent pityingly bn the 
handsome head bent in abject sorrow and shame; then she 
went on, “ After all, I see no reason to despair. I think 
you may retrieve the past— live it down. In your place, I 
should try to do so.” 


A FATAL TEMPTATION - . 


85 


There was little hope in the haggard face raised to hers. 

“ I can not retrieve the past,” he said. “ I can not re- 
place the money; the doctor can not be kept in ignorance 
of my conduct, and you understand him well enough to 
know that he will have no pity on me.” 

“ 1 am afraid it is true,” she answered. “If I had 
done the same thing, my father would not spare me. 
Still, I do not think,” she continued, speaking in a busi- 
ness-like tone, “ that there is any reason for you to think 
of sacrificing your life. I have heard my father say you 
are clever and likely to succeed in your profession.” 

“ What can I do with a brand like this on me forever?” 
he cried. “I have ruined my prospects, I have blighted 
my life; 1 have, by my folly and sin, brought a curse upon 
myself. 1 might,” he added, fiercely, “save myself if I 
could find fifty pounds; but, even if 1 did so, I could never 
respect myself again. ” 

“ You are young, strong, gifted, with most probably a 
long life before you. It is possible for you to redeem this 
one error of your youth,” Miss Leigh rejoined, firmly. 

“ If repentance could wipe away my sin, it is atoned for 
already,” he said; “ but how can 1 replace the money?” 

“Yes, that is the important question,” Marion an- 
swered, knitting her brows — “ how can you replace the 
money? 1 am trying to think if I can help you.” 

“ You!” he cried, and his face brightened. “ You are, 
indeed, my good angel!” 

She smiled at the words, a cold smile, which did not 
warm his heart. 

“ I am not much like an angel,” she responded; “ but 
I should like to help you. It seems to me a sad thing for 
a life like yours to be wrecked for the sake of a paltry fifty 
pounds, and I think I see my way to getting it for you. 
I have saved forty pounds of my own out of what my 
father allows me for myself, and I can borrow ten from 
Miss Thornton, which will make up the sum you require.” 

“ But how — how,” he stammered, “ shall 1 repay you?” 

“You will earn money some of these days,” she replied; 
“you can pay me then. ” 

“ You have saved me!” he cried, with a sudden burst 
of relief and gratitude, “ you have saved me from death. 
Henceforth my life is yours, to do with as you will.” 

“ Let us hope I shall never put your gratitude to so 


80 A FATAL TEMPTATION. 

severe a test,” she returned, lightly; “ but, if ever I need 
•your help, 1 shall ask for it. And now,” she added, “ go 
to your room, and try to sleep. You shall have the money 
in the morning; and promise me that you will let this be 
a lesson to you.” 

* * * * * * * 

Laurence Blantire looked very much ashamed, and his 
manner was nervous and constrained when he met Miss 
Leigh on the following morning. She, on the contrary, 
was as calm as though nothing unusual had passed between 

them. As a proof of her sympathy and friendliness, how- 
ever, she held out her hand to him — an unusual circum- 
stance with her; and Miss Thornton inwardly rejoiced to 
see that the imperious young mistress of the house was be- 
coming more genial and well disposed to the young assist- 
ant. 

“ Could you spare me a few minutes at eleven, Mr. 
Blantire?” M'ss Leigh asked, as they rose from the break- 
fast-table. He merely bowed assent; his heart was too 
full for words. 

Punctually at the hour named, Marion went into the 
surgery, and having carefully closed the door behind her, 
took a seat. 

“ We must proceed in a business-like fashion,” she said 

then. “ I have the money — forty pounds of it is my own, 
and with the ten pounds borrowed from Miss Thornton, 
will make up the sum you require. 1 should advise you to 
pay it into the bank at once, before my father comes 
home. There is no need to thank me, I am pleased to 
help you; but, .to show that I consider it a business trans- 
action, 1 shall ask you to sign this receipt for the fifty 
pounds, and also to give me an I 0 U for the amount.” 

Perhaps, if he could have foreseen the uses to which those 
documents would be put, he would have hesitated to do as 
Marion requested; as it was, no thought of the future 
entered his mind. He signed the receipt and the I 0 U, 
then-took up the bank-notes she held out. 

He would have expressed his gratitude then; but Miss 
Leigh cut short his broken sentences by reminding him 
that there was no time to lose; so he was fain to take his 
departure. He hurried at once to the bank, and if the 
kindly manager wondered why the young doctor looked so 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 87 

pale, and his manner was so strange, he made no remark 
upon it. 

Laurence soon told his errand, and paid in the fifty 
pounds to the doctor's account. Then he walked slowly 
home, his heart filled with sincere repentance and the reso- 
lution to do better. He did not forget, for one moment, 
the shame of his crime; the remembrance of it would go 
with him to the grave; but he was freed from a great peril, 
and for the time he thought most of his freedom. 

When Hr. Leigh returned and found all things well, he 
was pleased with Laurence's attention to the patients, his 
industry, and skill; he praised him as the grim old doctor 
seldom praised any one. 

“ 1 shall not hesitate about taking a week's holiday 
now," he said. 

The young man's heart beat high with gratitude. If it 
had not been for Marion, how different and how terrible 
this meeting would have been! 

The same evening the doctor inquired whether Laurence 
had paid the money he had left him into the bank, as he 
had directed him to do. The young man answered in the 
affirmative, and then the subject dropped. 

One thing struck Hr. Leigh after his return trip to Lon- 
don, and that was that Laurence Blantire seemed suddenly 
to have become quite devoted to him. He slaved rather 
than worked; he saved the doctor all possible trouble. No 
son of his own could have studied his interests more. Hr. 
Leigh augured well from it. The young man would rise 
in his profession some day, he thought, and do credit to 
his teaching. He was pleased, too, that Laurence had 
given up his fast companions. 

Just one week after that fatal game which had cost 
Laurence so dearly, he had met Captain Walsh, who hailed 
him with glee. 

4 4 Come to my place," he urged, “ and try your luck 
again." But Laurence shook his head. 

“ A burned child dreads the fire," he replied. 

“ You don't say you were scorched?" rejoined the cap- 
tain. 

“ So effectually as to be cured for the remainder of my 
life," Laurence said; and, without any further words. 


88 


A FATAL TEMPTATION - . 


“ I might possibly have made a few pounds more out of 
him,” soliloquized the captain. “It is strange that he 
should suddenly evince such a dislike for play. I'm afraid 
we frightened him last time.” 

Laurence Blantire set himself to work with renewed 
energy. Every penny he was able to save was always 
scrupulously handed over to Miss Leigh. He determined 
to deny himself every luxury and pleasure until he had 
paid this just and urgent debt. 

Still, although he was repaying the money and felt that 
he was doing his best, the sense of shame never died, the 
pain and the humiliation remained. It seemed impossible 
that he should have done this thing. There were times 
when he could hardly believe it was anything but a bad 
dream. Marion Leigh had been his guardian angel. She 
had saved him from disgrace and despair; yet he never felt 
quite at ease with her. He was of. a loving nature, grate- 
ful, and kindly. He would have done anything on earth 
for Marion Leigh; he would even have risked his life for 
her. 

When with her he anticipated every want, every wish of 
hers. He brought her her favorite flowers, and read her 
favorite books to her aloud during the long winter even- 
ings when he chanced to be at home; and the doctor, re- 
marking this, smiled to himself a cynical smile. 

“ All love's labor lost!” he muttered. “ Marion will 
never look at the lad, although she might do worse.” 

It may easily be imagined that ail the household fell into 
the same error, and believed that young Blantire was in 
love with Marion; all but the lady herself, who never for 
one moment gave it a thought. So matters went on, until 
one morning Dr. Leigh sat in the breakfast-room, with the 
“ Times ” unfolded before him. Marion still lingered be- 
hind the urn, while Laurence, who had finished breakfast, 
was looking over some notes for the doctor. 

Suddenly Dr. Leigh raised his head with a start. 

“ This must refer to you, Laurence,” he said. “ Listen: 

“ ‘ Fifty pounds reward offered to any one who can give 
reliable infomation as to the marriage of Sylvia Burton 
Carr with the late John Blantire, surgeon. Letters to be 
addressed to Messrs. North & Son, Solicitors, Lincoln's 
Inn Fields, London.' ” 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


89 


“ Yes, it must refer to me, or, to speak more correctly, 
to my parents,” Laurence replied. “ My mother’s name 
was Sylvia Burton Carr.” 

Marion looked up, keenly interested, and the doctor 
cried : 

“ I thought so. You should write to those lawyers at 
once, Laurence. Rely upon it, the advertisement has 
something to do with you personally.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

Dr. John Blantire spoke the truth on his death-bed 
when he said he had abused his trust. When quite young, 
just beginning his practice, and living in London, he had 
been called in. to attend a young lady patient whose name 
was Sylvia Burton Carr — a girl not more than nineteen 
years of age. She lived with her father in a quiet, retired 
part of Highgate, evidently on a slender income; and John 
Blantire had no idea that they were related to the great 
family of the Carrs, of Carrswell. 

There had been a quarrel between the brothers of the 
Carr family— the eldest. Sir Rudolph Carr, having dis- 
agreed with his two brothers, Richard and Edmund. 
Richard joined the army, and gained some distinction dur- 
ing the Crimean War, after which he returned home badly 
wounded. He died unmarried, and without being recon- 
ciled to his. brothers. The good-natured Edmund had 
neither strength, energy, nor wealth — he simply drifted 
through life; he married early, and had one daughter, 
named after her mother, Sylvia Burton. He never made 
any attempt to increase his small income; he had none of 
the spirit or ambition of the Carrs. He was content to 
read and to dream his life away. When his daughter 
Sylvia was in her nineteenth year, she fell dangerously ill; 
and John Blantire, then a poor, struggling surgeon, was 
hastily summoned, as being the nearest and the cheapest 
doctor within reach. Sjdvia Burton Carr fell madly in 
love with him, and he with her. He ought, at any rate, 
to have resisted his growing passion — he knew that he 
ought to have told her father; but he had not courage 
enough to do that. 

44 We shall be parted at once if my father knows of our 
attachment,” she said to him. <c He is indifferent on all 


90 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


subjects, but with regard to my future prospects he is de- 
cided. 1 am to marry what he pleases to call a gentle- 
man. He would sooner see me dead than the wife of a 
poor doctor; but your wife I will be, John, nevertheless,” 
she added, “ and never the wife of any other man.” 

Eventually the young couple eloped, Sylvia declaring 
that it would be useless to endeavor to obtain her father’s 
consent to their union. Mrs. Blantire never saw her father 
again. She had. but one child, her son Laurence. The 
young man had never dreamed that the day and the hour 
would come when the Carrs, of Oarrswell, would seek 
him. But the four sturdy sons of Sir Rudolph had died 
one after the other from various causes, and then the old 
baronet fell ill with grief and anxiety. He began to won- 
der who was to succeed him; his four sons were dead, his 
two brothers likewise — who was to take his place? Richard 
had left no children. Edmund had one daughter — Sylvia 
Burton Carr; they found the registry of her birth; but 
they could find no trace of her. Her father was dead, her 
neighbors had long since lost sight of her. It was only 
after infinite trouble that the lawyers succeeded in discov- 
ering that she had married John Blantire, and had had one 
son. 

This son, if he were living, was indisputably Sir Ru- 
dolph’s heir and the future master of Oarrswell, and forth- 
with the search recommenced for him. No one knew 
where John Blantire had taken his wife; whether he him- 
self was living or dead, or whether his son was alive; hence 
the advertisement that had attracted the doctor’s notice. 

When Messrs. North & Son received Laurence’s first 
letter, Mr. North, the senior partner, answered it in per- 
son. It may be imagined what a sensation this visit caused 
at Seafield House; and when he told his errand the sensa- 
tion was greater stilh Mr. North smiled when he saw 
Laurence. 

“You certainly have the Carr features,” he said. 
“ When you go to Carrs well, you will see many faces 
hanging on the walls there just like your own. There 
needs little confirmation of the fact that you are the son 
of Sylvia Burton Carr, and, when that is proved, you will 
be installed as Sir Rudolph’s heir.” 

The young assistant listened with a white, grave face 
that somewhat surprised the lawyer. He had expected 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


91 


some natural elation of spirits at the news he brought; but 
there was none. The young man’s face grew graver and 
paler; he was thinking what a stain he had brought on an 
honored name, that he was unfit to uphold the glories of 
an ancient race because he had branded himself “ thief.” 

How happy he would have been now but for the remem- 
brance of his unworthiness! Rank, wealth, such as he had 
never imagined, were within his grasp, and he could not 
enjoy them because of the one wrong he had committed. 
Granted that he had done his best to atone for it, that he 
had repented bitterly, still the shadow of sin was upon 
him, would remain upon him all his life. 

So he listened with a pale, shadowed face to the descrip- 
tion of the brilliant future in store for him. 

“ If all goes well,” Mr. North went on, “ you will suc- 
ceed to Carrswell and twenty thousand per annum. You 
do not look so delighted, Mr. Blantire, as I should do in 
your place.” 

“ 1 am not worthy of it,” he replied. 

“You probably understand your own value,” Mr. 
North rejoined, gravely. 

Laurence could not, as he longed to do, hold out his 
hand to him and say: 

“ My hands are not clean — they are not the hands of a 
just and honest man. I have misappropriated my em- 
ployer’s money.” He could not tell him this, although 
he wished to do so. 

Afterward, when that long private interview was ended, 
and Mr. North saw Dr. Leigh, he told that gentleman he 
had conceived a strong admiration for his protege. He 
had shown no elation at his sudden elevation to rank and 
wealth; his only thought seemed to be that he was un- 
worthy to fill such a responsible position. 

“I am seldom mistaken in my reading of character,” 
said Mr. North, “and I am quite sure that there is the 
promise of a great man in him.” 

“ There was the promise of a good, hard-working doctor 
in him,” returned Dr. Leigh; he was quite pleased with 
the turn of events. There might be many baronets; but 
no one could supply Laurence Blantire ’s place to him. 

When Miss Thornton heard the news, she cried out, “ I 
always thought that he was a prince in disguise!” and 


92 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


every one, including Laurence himself, laughed at her 
kindly enthusiasm. 

“ I have not felt much like a prince,” he said. 

Dr. Leigh pressed the lawyer to remain for the night. 
He was to take Laurence to Carrswell on the morrow. 
After dinner, while the cold wind wailed round the house, 
and bent the bare branches of the trees, they all gathered 
around the fire in the drawing-room, and the conversa- 
tion, as was natural, turned upon Carrswell. Mr. North 
spoke of its grandeur, its extent, and antiquity, of the 
picture-galleries filled with magnificent works oc art; but 
Laurence’s face grew no brighter as he listened, for the 
memory of that horrible time was stinging him with most 
bitter pain. But for that, how happy he would have been! 

“ It seems almost incredible,” he said at last, “ that all 
this should belong to me!” 

“ And it surprises me,” rejoined the lawyer, “ that you 
are not more pleased at your inheritance.” 

After telling them of the rare and valuable books that 
lined the library walls, he said: 

“ I remarked one strange thing, when I went with Sir 
Rudolph to look at the family portraits, that, while the 
men of the race are all fair, their wives are in every case 
brunettes— all the Ladies Carr have dark eyes and dark 
hair.” 

He paused for a few moments, struck by the dark eyes 
looking into his own— quiet and searching eyes which fell 
as they met his gaze. 

“ Ten to one,” said the lawyer to himself, “ that our 
young heir is in love with her. I do not blame him, if it 
be so. She is handsome enough to win any man’s heart.” 

Every one in Seafield soon heard the news concerning 
Laurence Blantire, that he was heir to a great estate and 
title, that his mother had belonged to a good old family, 
and his father had run away with her. Before long it was 
known all over the country-side, and every one rejoiced to 
hear of the young doctor’s good fortune. So many people 
came to see and to congratulate him, that Laurence had 
little time for his adieus. He found a few minutes for 
Miss Leigh. He sent to ask her if she would see him, and 
she hastened to the conservatory, where he awaited her. 
She held out her hand, and smiled as she greeted him. 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 93 

“ I am asking myself,” she said, “ if it be a fairy tale, 
or if it be true.” 

“It is true/-’ he replied, “quite true. You can im- 
agine how great is my gratitude to you; but for you rank 
and fortune would have found me in a dishonored grave. 
Think how much 1 owe you! Tell me, how shall I prove 
my gratitude to you?” 

“ You say you wish to prove your gratitude to me,” she 
replied. “ Perhaps the day may come when I shall ask 
you to do so.” 

“ I shall not fail you,” he said, earnestly. 

“ Remember your words,” she returned. “ When I ask 
a favor, I shall remind you of them.” 

“ No need to do that,” he assured her. “ I realize 
now,” he went on, “ what sin is; but for that dark back- 
ground, 1 should be the happiest man in the world.” 

“ You must forget it,” she said, gently; and, looking 
at her with troubled eyes, he answered: 

“ It is the one thing I shall never be able to forget.” 

Mr. North came down-stairs just in time to witness the 
end of this little tete-ci-ttte; it was not unnatural that he 
should have misunderstood it, and feel more sure than ever 
that there was a love affair between the two young people. 

“ The most likely thing in the world,” he thought. 
“ 1 must speak to Sir Rudolph about it. He must make 
no opposition; the girl is very handsome, but — cold— cold 
and proud — still she evidently pleases him.” 

Ten minutes afterward a little group stood in the 
entrance hall of Seafield House. The doctor, almost 
angry, certainly quite impatient with the course of events, 
waiting to say good-bye. Miss Thornton weeping tears of 
real regret, Marion calm and pale. 

“Good-bye, Laurence,” said the doctor. “Let me 
recommend you to go ou with your studies, although you 
are or will be a rich man.” 

“Good-bye, Mr. Blantire,” echoed Miss Thornton. 
“ You will not forget us, I know.” 

lie shook hands with Marion as they stood under the 
hall-lamp, just as they had done on that night, three 
months ago, when she saved his life. The memory of it 
came back strongly to both of them; the color rushed into 
Rer face, while his grew deathly pale. 

He left Seafield House with good wishes and kind words 


94 


A FATAL TEMPTATIOK. 


lingering in his ears, but all deadened by the dark memory 
of his sin; only for that, how brightly happy he would 
have been! 

“ Only think/’ cried Miss Thornton, as the carriage dis- 
appeared, “ that we have been entertaining all this time a 
prince in disguise !” 

“ I do not think he has had much entertainment; he 
has worked harder than be will ever do again,” the doctor 
rejoined grimly. 

“ 1 should like to see Carrswell,” observed Marion, re- 
flectively. 

“ You will be sure to see it some day,” her father as- 
sured her, with a smile. “ Laurence will ask us to Carrs- 
well as soon as he is master of it.” 

Then Dr. Leigh went out on his rounds, and the house- 
hold regained its usual calm. 

It was late in the afternoon when the lawyer, accom- 
panied by the young heir, arrived at Carrs well. Laurence 
was very silent as the carriage, which met them at the 
station, drove through the spacious and magnificent park 
— he was more silent still when the mansion itself came 
into view. 

“lam the first Carr who has entered this liouse with 
the stain of a crime on his soul,” thought the young heir; 
and the lawyer wondered again how any one could see this 
magnificent heritage and show so little emotion. 

If he could but forget it — just for one hour! If he 
could regain the lightness of heart, the ease of mind, the 
serenity of conscience that had been bis four months ago! 
Ob, thrice accursed sin, the memory of which would not 
die! — oh, dark and miserable shadow, that even all the 
glory of his present life could not brighten! 

Sir Rudolph was very ill — too ill to see the young heir 
on the night of. his arrival; but the next morning he de- 
sired his presence. Sir Rudolph lay in one of the state 
chambers — he looked very ill, very gray, and haggard. 

“ Welcome to Carrswell!” he said cordially though 
feebly. “ You take the place of my sons to me.” 

“ 1 wish,” returned Laurence, gently, “ that I could 
take the place of one son to you. ” 

“ I like the boy,” said Sir Rudolph, a few minutes later. 
“ North, are all the documents right?” 

The lawyer drew near with a roll of papers in his hand. 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


05 


“ I have everything here. Sir Rudolph, that can possibly 
be needed — certificates of the birth, marriage, and death 
of your brother, Edmund Carr, certificates of the birth, 
marriage, and death of his daughter, Sylvia Burton Carr, 
of the death of her husband, John Blantire, and of the 
birth of this young man, Laurence Carr Blantire/’ 

“ He must drop the name of Blantire, and take that of 
Carr,” said Sir Rudolph. •“ Come nearer to me,” he con- 
tinued; then, turning to the lawyer: “You are right. 
North; he has the true Carr face; no one could mistake 
him. If — if — I could have foreseen that 1 should have 
lost my sons, my four bonny lads, I would have tried to 
find the Blantires long ago. He looks good— he looks 
honest and true. Laurence, you will try to do credit to 
the old name?” 

“ That I will, Heaven helping me!” he replied. 

“ You will be a rich and a great man; you must be a 
good one also, or the rest will not avail. ” 

“ I will try. Heaven helping me,” he answered. The 
recollection of that terrible fall of his was too strong upon 
him to allow him to say more. 

“ I like this boy,” thought the baronet; “ he is modest 
and unassuming. Come nearer still, Laurence,” he went 
on, aloud. “ You are very young to find yourself placed 
in such a position; you will have many temptations; men 
will crowd round you — and women— ah! women, too — 
But perhaps you have a safeguard— have you?” 

Laurence thought of the beautiful face that had so 
strangely impressed him; and, e^en as he thought of it, 
the expression of his own face changed and grew more 
bright and tender. 

“ I have,” he replied; and there was quite another tone 
in his voice as he spoke. 

“ That is right,” said the baronet; “ the heart of a 
young man is best in safe keeping. I shall not live long, 
Laurence, and for the short time I have to spend on earth 
you must remain with me, and try to learn how to manage 
a large estate. When I am gone, you can bring your bride 
home.” 

An impulse came over the young man to say, 1 do not 
even know the name of the girl I love ” — he never thought 
of Marion— she had been very good to him, she was very 


96 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


handsome and very proud, she had saved his life, but she 
never entered his thoughts as a girl to love and marry. 

“ When you have time,” continued the baronet, “ look 
round at the pictured faces of the Ladies Carr— they were 
all gentlewomen — bring one worthy to place with them. 
Remember, you are the heir of Carrswell,” he added. 
“ You must take up your position as son of the house, 
and I will give you the horsesthat belonged to my eldest 
son. He loved art, and would go to Rome, where he died 
of malaria. Oh, Heaven! my sons, my sons!” 

Sir Rudolph suddenly gave way to a paroxysm of pas- 
sionate grief, which seemed to take what little strength he 
had away. 

When the doctor came he told Laurence he had better 
leave the room; but he raised his fair head with something 
like defiance. 

“ No,”, he said, “ if I am to be his comforter, and take 
the place of those he has lost, let me begin now.” 

So it was Laurence who put aside lawyer and doctor, 
and whispered words of loving comfort to the miserable 
man; it was Laurence who sat up with him the whole 
night through, consoling him when that passionate, de- 
spairing cry for his lost sons escaped him. 

Every one pronounced the young heir to be of the right 
metal. Who should know or guess that, in all he did, he 
was actuated by the desire to atone for a great sin? 

Contrary to expectation. Sir Rudolph survived several 
months after Laurence Blantire’s arrival at Carrswell; and 
during that time the baronet became greatly attached to 
the young man, while the latter continued to show him all 
the attention and devotion he might have expected from a 
son. In those few months Laurence seemed suddenly to 
have changed from a careless, light-hearted boy into a 
thoughtful, earnest man; the shame and the pain at the 
memory of his sin were always with him. 

He was perpetually drawing contrasts between what was 
and what might have been. Had he met with his deserts, 
he would have been lying in prison, or, still worse, have 
been lying in a dishonored grave; yet here he was, heir to 
such wealth and magnificence as he had never dreamed of, 
beloved, respected, and esteemed by every one. 

It was the mercy of Heaven that stood between his sin 
and its punishment. One idea possessed him; he would 


A FATAL TEMPTATION - . 


97 


endeavor to expiate the error of his youth by the good 
deeds of his manhood, so he set diligently to work to learn 
the duties of a large land-owner. 

When you succeed to Carrs well,” Sir Rudolph said to 
him one day, “ I would advise you not to have a steward 
or agent — attend to the estate yourself; let no one inter- 
fere between you and your people.” And Laurence re- 
solved to do as the baronet wished. 


CHAPTER V. 

It was about three months after Laurence’s installation 
as the heir of Carrswell that Sir Rudolph sent for him to 
his room one morning. 

“ Laurence/’ he said, “owing to my illness you have 
had no opportunity of meeting our friends and neighbors. 
Here is a letter from the Earl of Norwich; he lives at 
Swanscourt, about six miles from here, and he asks you to 
a dinner-party next week, to be followed by a ball in the 
evening.” 

“ I would much rather decline the invitation and remain 
at home with you,” the young man replied. “ I do not 
like to leave you.” 

“ This is a social duty, you see, Laurence, one of the 
kind that ought to ,be fulfilled, whether we like it or not. 
The Earl of Norwich is one of our leading men; he has 
always shown the greatest courtesy and kindness toward 
me; doubtless he intends to continue the same toward you. 
You must go, Laurie.” 

“ If you wish it, sir,” Laurence replied. 

It was something of an ordeal for him to dine with half 
the magnates of the county, to say nothing of attending 
the ball afterward; but, of course, if it were a duty, it 
must be done. 

“You will make the acquaintance of the loveliest girl I 
have ever seen,” said Sir Rudolph, “ the earl’s daughter. 
Lady Magdalen d’Este — D’Este is the name of the Nor- 
wich family. The earl has but this one daughter; but she 
will be no great heiress — his estates are entailed, and the 
money goes with the estates; but, as I said before, she is 
the loveliest girl 1 have ever seen, and time was when I 
was a judge of a pretty face, and, though you have a safe- 
guard, you will find my warning needed,” he added, with 


98 


A FATAL TEMPTATION - . 


a faint smile, “ for I assure you that few young men see 
Lady Magdalen d’Este without losing their hearts.” 

“ I do not think there is any fear in my case,” answered 
Laurence, his thoughts reverting at once to the beautiful 
girl who had so entirely bewitched him. 

On the day indicated, young Blantire went to Swans- 
court, and was most cordially welcomed by the earl and 
countess. 

“We have been longing to make your acquaintance,” 
said. Lord Norwich; “but Sir Rudolph has been so ill, it 
seemed hardly right to trouble him with visitors. You are 
welcome to Swanscourt. As we are to be neighbors, we 
ought to know each other.” 

Lord Norwich was a kind, large-hearted, generous man. 
Lady Norwich was a nonentity. Though she was a hand- 
some woman still, it was a languid kind of beauty, quite 
in accordance with her weak, sentimental character. 

“You have not been introduced to my daughter,” she 
said. Her heart warmed to the handsome, gallant young 
fellow, whom she felt sure her daughter would like. 
“ Come with me,” she added. “ Lady Magdalen is 
generally surrounded by a little court of admirers; she is 
at the further end of the room.” 

So saying, the countess laid the tips of her gloved fingers 
on his arm. As they passed down the long room, she 
stopped two or three times to introduce him to different 
people. 

Presently they paused before a beautiful, graceful girl. 
The light from the chandelier fell full upon her. Laurence 
saw the gleam of white pearls in the bright coils of hair, 
and then his eyes rested on her face. A low exclamation 
burst involuntarily from his lips. It was the same face he 
had seen but once before in his life, but which had haunted 
his dreams persistently — the face of the girl he loved. 

The countess looked up at him at that sudden exclama- 
tion. He had grown deathly pale. She smiled com- 
placently. He was not the first one upon whom her 
daughter’s charms had had a similar effect. 

Meanwhile, the little crowd of .admirers made way for 
the countess and the stranger, then the lovely face was 
turned smilingly to Laurence, the beautiful eyes rested 
kindly on him, as Lady Magdalen said a few words in a 
voice that seemed to him like sweetest music — only a mo- 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


99 


ment, and then she moved away to speak to some one else. 
When the countess left him, Laurence remained standing 
like a man in a dream. His eyes followed every movement 
of that graceful figure, saw nothing else — no one else; he 
forgot everything except the presence of Lady Magdalen 
d'Este. 

He never remembered afterward with whom he went 
down to dinner, of what viands he partook, or what sub- 
jects were discussed. 

There was an hour to pass in the drawing-room before 
the ball began. Laurence saw Lady Magdalen standing 
by one of the small tables — she had carelessly taken up an 
engraving, and was examining it. He crossed over to her. 
She turned her bright face to him, with a charming smile. 

“ I have seen you before, Lady Magdalen,” he said, a 
little abruptly; and then he paused, for the beautiful eyes 
were looking at him with a wondering smile. “ I have 
seen you before,” he repeated, “ and I have never forgot- 
ten it.” 

“ 1 do not remember ever meeting you,” she answered, 
with a puzzled air. 

“ No, no,” he rejoined, hastily. “ You did not see me. 
It was one morning in the summer. l r ou were gathering 
wild flowers.” 

“ But where?” she asked, laughingly. “ 1 have gath- 
ered wild flowers so frequently and in so many different 
places. Where was it?” 

“At Seafield,” he replied. “ I lived there; and one 
morning, when 1 was walking to St. Margaret's Bay — I — 
saw you. ” 

Her face brightened. 

“I remember Seafield,” she said, “a lovely place by 
the sea. I was staying with Lady Pemberton — at Pember- 
ton Court, and it must have been during my visit to her 
that you saw me; but,” she added, her beautiful eyes look- 
ing frankly into his own, “ if such was the case, how was 
it that 1 did not see you?” 

“ Should you have remembered me if you had done so?” 
he asked, eagerly. 

She was silent for a few moments. 

“ 1 do not know,” she replied. “1 see so many faces—” 

“ And 1,” he said, speaking out the thoughts of his 
heart, without pausing to think whether it were discreet to 


100 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


do so or not — “ and I, since I saw your face, have seen no 
other. ” 

“ It is time we went to the ball-room,” she said, hur- 
riedly. 

“ Will you let me dance just once with you?” he whis- 
pered. 

She flushed rosy red as she answered : 

“Yes.” 

If Sir Rudolph noticed any change in Laurence after his 
visit to Swanscourt, he made no comment on the fact. 
The dearest wish of his heart had been that one of his sons 
should marry Lady Magdalen d’Este — he had the same 
wish with regard to his young kinsman, but he never gave 
expression to it. 

After this Laurence went over frequently to Swanscourt, 
where he was always a most welcome guest. The earl and 
countess both liked him; they had the same idea, that he 
would be an excellent parti for their beautiful daughter; 
what she thought on this subject was not so well known. 
Lady Magdalen was always kind to him — always beautiful 
and charming, but she did not wear her heart on her 
sleeve. 

Laurence said nothing to any one of the great hope of 
his life, the desire to win Lady Magdalen d*Este for his 
wife. Sir Rudolph was so ill that he required all his care 
and attention; it was hardly the time to trouble him about 
a love affair. 

The earl and countess went on the Continent early in 
the year, and their daughter accompanied them. In the 
meanwhile, Laurence had proved his gratitude to those he 
had known at Seafield. He had first of all paid his debt 
to Marion, sending her, at the same time, a letter filled 
with expressions of gratitude and affection; then he had 
lavished presents upon them all — not forgetting Miss 
Thornton. 

“ 1 always said he was a prince in disguise,” that lady 
declared, emphatically, as she admired his costly gifts. 
“ Who but he would have thought of me?” 

Miss Leigh received a magnificent set of rubies. 

“ They are too good for me to wear in this place,” said 
Marion, thoughtfully; “ but 1 shall not always be here.” 

She often looked thoughtful in those days, for a great 
plan was maturing in her mind. 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


101 


And so the time sped on, and at length Sir Rudolph, 
after a long illness, died — only too thankful to be permit- 
ted to lay down the burden of life. He died with his 
hands clasped in Laurence’s. The baronet was laid to 
rest, amid all the solemn and sorrowful paraphernalia of 
death, and Laurence became lord of Carrswell. No 
future ever seemed brighter than his, no prospects fairer. 
Young, handsome, gifted with every good gift that life 
holds, who would not have envied him? And who could 
possibly have told that a shadow hung over him, so black 
that it darkened his golden present? Who would have 
dreamed of a skeleton in that magnificent house? But 
the shadow and the skeletons were the memory of one and 
the same thing. 

Those who had to deal with Sir Laurence Carr, as he 
was now called, could not help noticing how kind, gentle, 
and generous he was to all evil-doers. He could never be 
persuaded to punish a man for his first offense. 

“ Give him another chance,” he would say. “ It is the 
first offense — we do not know how sorely be was tempted 
— let him try again.” 

On the death of Sir Rudolph, Laurence found himself 
the possessor of an income of twenty thousand per annum, 
of a large sum of money that had accumulated since the 
death of Sir Rudolph’s sons, lord of the rich domain of 
Carrswell, owner of all the treasures contained in that 
grand old mansion. Rich and unfettered, what more could 
he desire? He owned to himself that he would have been 
one of the happiest men in the world if he had never done 
wrong. He had looked over the family jewels, and had 
lost himself in a dream of delight. They should deck his 
darling — they should clasp the beautiful white throat, they 
should bind the shapely arms, they should add to the 
beauty which was already priceless. The thought of that 
time, when he should have won her, was like a dream of a 
distant heaven to him. 

He was lonely in the grand old mansion; it was too soon 
after Sir Rudolph’s death to invite friends, so he peopled 
the large rooms and the lofty corridors with his fancies; 
he saw there always a beautiful, fair-haired girl; he pict- 
ured little children with eyes like hers; he heard the sweet 
babble of baby voices, the soft patter of children’s feet, 


10 2 . A FATAL TEMPTATION. 

and then, for a time wrapped in sweet fancies, he would 
almost forget his sin. 

Why should it shadow his whole life? Often and often 
had he asked himself the question. It was all over and 
ended; he had repaid the money; no one knew anything 
of it, save Marion Leigh, and she would never betray him; 
the world would never know it, his character would never 
suffer from it; therefore, he asked himself, with fresh 
courage, how could his sin darken his whole life? 

The answer was not long in coming. 


CHAPTER VI. 

It was with no small feeling of delight that Sir Laurence 
Carr heard that the Earl and Countess of Norwich were 
expected home. On the day'after their arrival, he went 
over to Swanscourt. Lord and Lady Norwich had always 
received him with the kindliest courtesy; this morning 
they were more gracious than ever. 

When they had talked for some little time, the earl rode 
out to keep an appointment, and the countess excused 
herself on the plea of receiving some visitors. 

“You will find Lady Magdalen out in the garden,” she 
said. 

That was what he wanted, to be alone with Lady Mag- 
dalen, if but for a few minutes; and he hurried through 
the grounds in search of her. Her fair face flushed when 
she saw him. He had not intended to tell her of his love, 
because it would not be quite decorous so soon after Sir 
Rudolph’s death. 

She held out her hand to him, and looked into his face 
with kindly eyes. 

“Lady Norwich told me 1 should find you here,” he 
said. 

“ Yes,” she answered; “ I delight in being in the fresh 
air. What a lovely morning this is. Sir Laurence.” 

Sh8 was standing near a little fountain under a spread- 
ing chestnut- tree; near it was a rustic seat. 

“ Shall we sit down?” she said, taking a seat near the 
marble basin, and making room for him beside her. 

He could hear the beating of his own heart as he ac- 
cepted her invitation. He was so happy that he forgot 
even his sin; the memory of it did not creep into that sun- 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


103 


lit hour. Of course he was not going to make love to her, 
although love shone in his eyes, trembled on his lips, was 
revealed in every word and gesture. He reverted to the 
old theme — where he had first met her; and they talked 
about Seafield and St. Margaret’s Bay. 

In some way — she never could quite tell how it happened 
— the flowers that she had been carrying lay on the grass 
at her feet, and her hand rested in his. She was so sur- 
prised that she made no effort to withdraw it; and presently 
she asked him to tell her the story of his life at Seafield. 

“ I can not quite make out,” she said, when he had 
finished, “ whether you like this Marion Leigh or not.” 

“ She was very kind to me once,” he answered; “ but, 
as a rule, we saw very little of each other. I must always 
be grateful to her for a service she once rendered me.” 

Lady Magdalen d’Este thought, with some relief, that 
love and gratitude do not always go together. 

Soon the other hand was made prisoner, and he was 
pouring out his whole heart to her, telling her what he 
hoped to do in the future, what great ends and aims he 
had fashioned for himself, and of a sweet rest and hope, 
the fulfillment of which would crown his life. She listened 
with deepest sympathy, her beautiful eyes meeting his, her 
fair face changing as his moods changed. 

He had declared to himself that he would not make love 
to her; but he bent his handsome head over her, and looked 
at her with ardent eyes. 

“ It was in August I saw you first,” he said. “ When 
August comes round again 1 shall have a question to ask 
you. May I ask it?” 

She bent her head. She knew in her own heart what 
the question would be, and in her heart she answered, 
“ Yes.” 

“ I wish,” he said, “ this morning could last forever.” 

“ So do I,” she sighed. 

And then — neither of them knew how it happened — he 
kissed her; and her heart went out to him in that moment, 
never to come back to her again. 

******* 

Later on in the season, the earl and countess left Swans- 
court again; they had accepted an invitation to spend some 
weeks at Hyde. Sir Laurence only saw Lady Magdalen 
once before her departure. 


104 


A FATAL TEMPTATION". 


“Going away again/’ he said, “just as Swanscourt 
looks its best! It does indeed seem a pity.” 

“ I do not want to go,” she answered, in a low voice. 
“ I would rather remain here.” 

“ When will you return?” he asked. 

“We shall be here in August,” she replied; and, as she 
spoke, a beautiful, tender flush dyed her face. 

“ In August!” he cried. “ That is a good omen for 
me. It is in August that I shall have to ask you to answer 
a certain question; and, Lady Magdalen,” he added, sud- 
denly, “ will you do me one great favor? You will not be 
angry because I ask it?” 

“ I could never be angry with you. Sir Laurence,” she 
replied. 

“ Will you write to me sometimes? It is not very much 
to ask — a letter every now and then, just to tell me that 
you are well. It will be all 1 shall have. to live upon until 
your return — will you?” 

Lady Magdalen looked thoughtful. 

“ I do not know,” she said; “ that will be keeping up 
a correspondence, will it not?” 

“ A very harmless one,” he answered. “ Let me \vrite 
to you, let me tell you all about the poor people at Carrs- 
well. I know how much you are interested in them, and 
1 know just what it will please you to hear. May I write?” 

A bright smile came over her face. 

“ I think I should like that very much, indeed,” she re- 
turned. 

“ And you will send just a few lines in answer?” he 
pleaded. 

Lady Magdalen d’Este could not resist him. 

“ Yes,” she said, “ I will answer your letters when you 
write.” 

Having allowed him to hold her hands tightly clasped, 
to kiss her, having given him her heart, knowing that he 
loved her, it would be nonsense to refuse so small a favor 
as a letter. Her kindness made him bolder. They were 
bidding each other farewell in the garden at Swanscourt. 

“ Give me something,” he said, “ to remember this 
hour and your words.” 

She turned to a bush near, and plucking a white rose, 
placed it silently in his hand. 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


105 


“ Thank you,” he said; “ but I want something more — 
remember, I have to live without seeing you until August.” 

She knew — she felt sure that, when she came back to 
Swanscourt, he would tell her that he loved her, and would 
ask her to be his wife. There' had been no mention of love 
or marriage between them yet; but her faith in him was so 
perfect that she raised her face to his and kissed him. 
Words might have been said then that were irrevocable, 
but that Lady Norwich suddenly appeared. 

iL I am sorry we are going,” she said to the young man; 
“ we shall see nothing at Ryde so pretty as this. It is 
good-bye until August,” she added, as she shook hands 
with him. 

“ Good-bye until August,” echoed Lady Magdalen. 
Her hand lay for a few moments in Sir Laurence's — her 
face flushed — her eyes met his — and they both knew — both 
understood; no more words were needed. 

The family from Swanscourt went away that day, and 
on the morrow came a letter from Dr. Leigh — he had not 
been well lately — he said he wanted change of air, and 
he would avail himself of Sir Laurence's oft-given invita- 
tion, and bring Marion with him for a few weeks — he had 
engaged some one to take charge of his practice, so that he 
should feel quite at ease while he was away. 

“ I have not had a real holiday since my honey-moon,” 
wrote the doctor — “ that is more than twenty years ago— 
you may imagine how much I shall enjoy this. Marion 
looks forward to it with even greater pleasure and antici- 
pation than I do. We shall hope to be with you by the 
end of the month. ” 

A kindly letter — and Sir Laurence had certainly often 
written to invite them. He was most anxious to see them; 
he had thought of it often, and had made plans for their 
amusement. He could not tell why a shudder came over 
him, why there was a sense of coming sorrow and trouble. 
Then he laughed at himself. What could it be? What 
sorrow could be drawing near him? He shook aside im- 
patiently this feeling of oppression, and set to work in real 
earnest to provide amusement for his coming guests— per- 
haps in the depths of his heart there was some little dislike 
to seeing Marion again. She was the only one who knew 
of that shameful past; her presence would bring it all the 
more vividly before him. It was but natural that he 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


106 

should shrink from seeing her. Still, but for her kindness 
— her generosity, he would not be here — “ lord of this fair 
domain.” He would show his gratitude to her by doing 
all in his power to make her visit pleasant. 

He ordered his housekeeper to prepare the best suite of 
rooms for her; he purchased a beautiful little carriage, 
with a pair of ponies, as a present for her. She should 
drive about in the lovely Devonshire lanes, and when she 
returned to Seafield, take the present home with her. He 
remembered that she was fond of flowers, and he ordered 
her rooms to be filled with the rarest and choicest. 

Dr. Leigh and his daughter arrived on the date fixed for 
their visit, the former looking old and worn, Marion bright, 
well, and wonderfully handsome. They reached Carrs well 
in the evening. Sir Laurence was standing on the terrace 
awaiting them. As M&rion Leigh came slowly toward him, 
he wondered again why that presentiment of trouble 
weighed so heavily upon him. The doctor was unfeigned- 
ly pleased to see him. 

“ What a splendid place you have here. Sir Laurence!” 
he said; and Marion looked at him with a smile. 

“ Do you remember,” she said, “how Miss Thornton 
would always declare that you were a prince in disguise? 
She would be quite sure of it if she were to come here. 1 
can not imagine what you felt,” she added, “ in exchang- 
ing Seafield House for this. It must have seemed to you 
very strange at first.” 

“ I was so much engrossed at first with Sir Rudolph,” 
he replied, “ that I hardly noticed it.” 

They were standing in the great entrance-hall now, and 
though Marion was somewhat awed by the magnificence 
that surrounded her, she made no sign. 

“ I did not know,” she said, “ that Carrswell was such 
an ancient place. It seems a strange thing that you — the 
heir of all this — should have lived with us.” 

“ If only one of Sir Rudolph’s sons had lived, it would 
never have been mine,” he replied. 

She was looking at him with thoughtful eyes. When he 
lived at Seafield House, he had, with the exception of that 
one night, been so perfectly indifferent to her. She had 
considered him as so infinitely beneath her that she had 
really never noticed what a handsome young fellow he was. 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


107 


She looked at the tall figure, with its easy grace, and at 
the fair handsome face, with something of surprise. 

“ You have changed,” she said, slowly; “ you are taller, 
and j 7 ou look much older.” 

He was just a little amused and a little flattered. 

Throughout that evening Marion was very quiet; noth- 
ing could have been kinder or more cordial than their re- 
ception, yet she felt further apart from him than she had 
ever done before. 

“I wonder,” she said to herself, more than once, “if 
he remembers?” 

The doctor was thoroughly delighted — the capital din- 
ner, the choice wines, his favorite fruit, all put him into 
the most excellent humor. 

“ 1 really should not mind being heir to an estate like 
this/ he said. “ What a wonderful change, Laurie!” 

“ Papa,” interposed Marion, “you forget.” 

“No, my dear, 1 do not forget,” he replied. “ I am 
not going to stand on ceremony with my young friend 
here.” 

“ That is right, doctor,” said Sir Laurence, heartily. 
“ I like to hear my old name again.” 

Marion was looking at him calmly, thoughtfully; but he 
could not fathom the expression of those dark eyes — he 
could not tell what they meant; but there was something 
in them that startled him, why, he knew not. He felt 
that it would be some little relief if she would talk, laugh, 
look tired or bored — anything rather than watch him in 
that cool, deliberate way. 


CHAPTER VII. 

“ Laurence, this is a fine place — a fine place, indeed,” 
remarked the doctor, the next morning, as he stood on the 
terrace, with a cigar. “What would your father have 
said, I wonder, had he known of the goodly heritage in 
store for you?” 

“ I wish my father and mother had both lived to enjoy 
it themselves,” the young man answered, with a sigh. 
“ After all, though it is very splendid, it is very lonely.” 

“You can soon remedy that evil,” said the doctor. 
“ You have a beautiful house; it will not be difficult to 
find a beautiful wife.” 


108 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


“Found already!” thought the young baronet; and his 
heart gave a sudden bound of joy,, as for one moment he 
was back in thought under the shadow of the chestnut- 
tree, and saw a fair, blushing face raised to his. 

“ That is what you want now,” the old doctor went on — 
“ a beautiful young wife; and, were 1 in your place, I 
should hasten to secure one.” 

Marion was leaning on the balustrade of the terrace, 
watching the fountains below. When her father spoke, 
she raised her head and looked at Sir Laurence — a calm, 
thoughtful gaze, but one that made him shudder. He 
could not think what had come over him, that whenever 
he met those keen, clear eyes of hers he trembled. Marion 
was kind enough. She never made the faintest allusion to 
the secret between them — it seemed- to be obliterated from 
her mind; but there was something in that cold, steady, 
thoughtful glance which made him uneasy. 

“ No man’s life is complete,” continued the doctor, 
harping still on the same string, “ until he is married. 
Look out for a wife, Laurence.” 

The young man laughed a little nervously — he would 
have been more at his ease but for those dark eyes watch- 
ing him. 

“ The idea is worth consideration,” he replied, trying to 
speak lightly. 

Then, anxious to change the subject — anxious that 
Marion should withdraw her attention from him — he pro- 
posed that they should go to see the pony-carriage. 

“ I should like you to try the ponies this morning,” he 
said to Marion. 

When they had duly admired the little carriage and all 
its pretty appointments, Marion looked up at him with 
shining eyes. 

“ Did you really buy this expressly for me?” she asked. 

“ If you will do me the favor to accept it,” he said. 

“ I shall both value and enjoy it,” she replied. “ I will 
not attempt to thank you for it— it is a valuable and beau- 
tiful present. Papa, shall we able to find room for it at 
Seafield House?” 

“ We will try, my dear,” the doctor answered. 

There was something in his daughter’s manner that even 
he did not understand. Marion drove out that same 
morning with a groom in attendance— drove along the 


A FATAL TEMPTATION - . 


109 


sweet Devonshire lanes; but on her face there was no keen 
appreciation of the beauties of nature. Some great 
thought evidently occupied her mind. More than once 
she said to herself, with a long, deep-drawn sigh: 

“ Dare 1 do it? and, if 1 do it, will it succeed? It will 
be total success or total failure. Dare 1 — " 

She gazed straight before her, lost in speculation, her 
lips closed and set; and one, looking at her just then, 
would have thought her capable of anything, so determined 
was the expression of her countenance. 

“ Dare I?” she asked herself, as she drove through the 
magnificent park, where the antlered deer were browsing. 
“ Dare I?” she asked herself again, as she drove into the 
court-yard, where attentive servants awaited her. 

* * * * * * 

One morning, when the doctor expected some important 
letters from Seafield, Sir Laurence asked Marion to open 
the post-bag. She did so, and assorted the letters. There 
were several for the young baronet, and among them lay a 
small white, thick envelope, from which came a faint odor 
of violets; the handwriting was evidently that of a lady. 
As Miss Leigh gave it to Sir Laurence, she watched him 
closely. She saw that when his eyes fell upon it his face 
flushed hotly. He opened the other letters and read them 
— this one he put aside. Even as he did so, he said to 
himself he wished Marion would not look at him with 
those cold, curious, dark eyes. The letter was from Lady 
Magdalen, and his heart overflowed with happiness. 

In the* meantime, the doctor was enjoying himself 
thoroughly; Sir Laurence introduced him to all the Clevel- 
and scientific men in the neighborhood; he gave recherche 
little dinners in his honor; he paid him every possible at- 
tention. Marion, too, was enjoying her visit; but she had 
no sentimental nonsense in her mind. If in true girl- 
fashion she had fallen in love with her handsome youug 
host, one would have forgiven her and liked her better for 
it; but to possess wealth, not love, was the ruling passion 
of Marion's life. 

“ I should like to go through the picture-gallery with 
you," she said, one morning, to Laurence. “ I want to 
•see the portraits of the Ladies Carr; will you tell me the 
history of each one of them?" 

“Iam not sufficiently versed in the family annals to do 


110 A FATAL TEMPTATION. 

that,” he replied; “ but I will show you all the portraits, 
arid tell you all I know. Will you come with us, doctor?” 

“No; 1 am more inclined for the open air than a 
picture-gallery,” he answered; and Marion, in her heart, 
thanked him. 

The picture-gallery ran along the western wing of the 
house, and one part of it was reserved for family portraits. 
The young girl looked even handsomer than usual that 
morning. She wore a long, sweeping dress of white mus- 
lin with rose-colored ribbons, and looked as fair as any of 
the pictured Ladies Carr. 

“ Who is this?” she asked her companion, pointing to 
a dark, beautiful face depicted on the canvas before them. 

Sir Laurence looked at the picture-. 

“ That is Lady Anastasia Carr,” he replied “ There is 
a romantic story attached to her; she was forced to marry 
one of our ancestors. She loved some one else, and died 
of a broken heart.” 

“ And this?” Marion asked, looking at a lady crowned 
with a diadem of pearls. 

Sir Laurence laughed. 

“ That is Lady Adelaide, the greatest heiress that ever 
married into the house of Carr.” 

“ This is a beautiful picture,” Miss Leigh remarked, 
suddenly pausing before a portrait of an imperious-looking 
woman. “ Who is this, Sir Laurence?” 

“ That is Lady Barbara Carr, wife of Rupert, who lived 
in the time of Charles II. She was a woman, of great 
beauty, and eagerly sought, but so proud that her lovers 
were frightened at her. They crowded round her, they 
paid her all kinds of homage, they flattered her, but no 
man was bold enough to say, ‘ Will you marry me?’ She 
kept her lovers in order, you see. Miss Leigh. ” 

“ Rather too much so,” laughed Marion. 

“ She never surrendered,” Laurence went on — “ never 
owned herself touched by the love of any man until Rupert 
Carr went to Court; and he would as soon have thought of 
wooing and winning a princess as of winning proud Lady 
Barbara; but she loved him. He would not, and did not, 
believe it. One day, when they were together in the gar- 
dens at Hampton Court, she gathered a beautiful, dark-* 
red rose — do you see the rose painted in the corner of the 
picture — there?” 


A FATAL TEMPTATION". 


Ill 


44 Yes,” said Marion. 

“Well, she gathered this rose, and drew his attention 
to it; then she looked at him with loving eyes. 4 If I car- 
ried this rose in my hand for fifty years/ she said, ‘ no 
man about the Court would ask me for it/ ‘ Why not?’ 
he questioned. 4 They think I am too proud/ she replied. 

4 1 will give it to you, if you wish it/ she added. 4 You 
will do me a great honor. Lady Barbara/ he answered. 
She. turned to him suddenly and resolutely. 4 The only 
man I shall ever marry/ she said, 4 will be the man to 
whom I give the rose/ and they were married/’ 

44 Bather a strange proceeding/’ said Marion. She had 
grown deathly white, and her dark eyes betrayed emotion. 
Why this story should touch her so he could not tell. She 
turned to Sir Laurence. 44 What' do you think of her con- 
duct, Sir Laurence?” she asked. 44 Do you consider it 
was unlady-like — unfeminine?” 

44 1 have never thought about it,” he replied. 

44 But now that you are asked to think?” persisted 
Marion. 

44 1 should say that she had a right to please herself,” 
answered Sir Laurence. 44 If, by speaking a few uncon- 
ventional words. Lady Barbara made herself happy for life, 

I should not blame her. No one rule can fit all cases.” 

44 But if you knew a lady who deliberately asked a man 
to marry her, should you like her — respect her?” 

44 1 can not tell — it would be unusual, it is true; but * 
there might be good reasons for pursuing such a course.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

44 Would not you dislike her for it?” 

44 No; I think I should not,” he replied, indifferently. 

44 Dare I?” Marion asked herself again; and again she 
said to herself she would wait. 

So they went round the gallery, Sir Laurence pointing 
out to her the fairest faces, telling her the stories he best 
remembered. They came to the last portrait, that of 
Lady Catherine — wife of Sir Rudolph, and mother of the 
four lads who had died so unexpectedly. There was a 
vacant space by the side of it. 

44 There is room for another Lady Carr,” Marion ob- 
served. 


112 


A FATAL TEMPTATION". 


44 It will be filled some day.” 

It was an answer which puzzled Marion Leigh not a 
little. 

It was a beautiful moonlit night. The day had been a 
busy one. • Sir Laurence had driven his guests to Moss- 
dale, where they had visited the principal shops; and soon 
after they had returned home the doctor asked to see the 
famous Carrs well rubies. Sir Laurence brought them out, 
and the doctor was loud in his praise of the magnificent 
jewels; but Marion said little, though her face was ex- 
pressive. She took up a necklace. 

44 These rubies would not look well on a fair woman,” 
she said; 44 they would suit a brunette much better.” 

The doctor laughed. Sir Laurence thought of the fair 
girl they were meant to‘ adorn; and Marion fastened the 
necklace round her throat; then she put the bracelets on 
her arm and the stars in her dark hair. 

“ They certainly do suit you remarkably well, Marion,” 
said the doctor. 

Miss Leigh looked long and steadfastly at her own re- 
flection in the great mirror; then a resolute expression 
came over her face. 

“ 1 dare,” she said to herself, “ and I will. The rubies 
have inspired me.” 

When dinner was over, and the doctor was enjoying his 
cigar, Marion went up to Sir Laurence. 

44 Ever since I have been here,” she said, 44 1 have been 
longing to see the gardens by moonlight, and there has 
never, I think, been a moon like this to-night. Will you 
take me?” 

44 With the greatest pleasure,” he. replied. 44 Will you 
come now?” 

44 Yes,” she said, and she placed her hand on his arm. 

They strolled into the rose-garden. A statue of Flora 
stood in the midst of the roses, and a garden-chair was 
placed against it. Marion declared herself fatigued, and 
sat down, drawing her black lace shawl round her shoul- 
ders. The moonlight, the sweet-scented air, the hundreds 
of blooming roses, the lovely scene that lay around them, 
made it a paradise. Sir Laurence did not talk much. 
Marion, too, was silent for some minutes. She hesitated, 
as a diver might pause on the brink before he makes a 
perilous plunge. She was about to gain or lose all. 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 113 

“ Do you remember. Sir Laurence,” she said, slowly, 
“ the story you told me about Lady Barbara Carr?” 

“ Yes; I remember it well,” he replied, wondering a 
little why Marion should revert to that subject now. 

Marion rose slowly from her seat. She went to one of 
the rose-trees, and gathered a red rose; he saw her strip 
away the thorns and arrange the leaves; he saw the dew 
shining on the petals of the flower; then she walked slowly 
up to him, and stood before him, the red rose in her hand. 

“You remember the story you told me?” she repeated, 
holding the flower out to him. “ Suppose that I were the 
beautiful Lady Barbara, and you Sir Rupert Carr, would 
you have the rose from me on the same condition as he 
took it?” 

Her breath came hard and fast as she uttered the last 
few words; her face grew deathly pale. She held the 
flower out to him, but he did not take it. Instead of that, 
he sprung from his seat, pale and agitated. 

“ I do not understand you,” he said, hurriedly; he was 
taken so utterly by surprise he was at a loss what to say. 
He thought she had spoken on a foolish impulse, and 
wanted to give her time to recollect herself. “ I do not 
understand,” he repeated. 

The dark eyes did not droop before the wonder in his; 
more determination crept into them. 

“ How shall I make my meaning clear?” she said. 
“ Lady Barbara gave the red rose to the man she wished 
to marry — I give you this. ” 

Again he made no effort to take it; but she held it still 
before him. 

“ You said yourself that no one rule could apply to 
every case,” she continued. “ I know the rule is for a 
man to make a woman an offer of marriage; in my case 
the rule does not apply.” He made no answer — he was 
dazed and bewildered. “ You told me once,” she went 
on, “ that whatever grace or favor I asked from you, you 
would grant it, let it be what it might. 1 want to be mis- 
tress of Carrs well. I have not spoken without thought,” 
Marion went on. “ Great as my claim upon you is, I 
should not urge it in the face of great obstacles. If 1 were 
old, or — or ugly, uneducated, vulgar, I should not dream 
of it; but 1 am" young and handsome; I am as well edu- 
cated and as well bred as you are yourself; no man need 


114 


A FATAL TEMPTATION - . 


be ashamed of me. I should make a suitable mistress for 
Carrswell and a suitable wife for you. I have thought it 
well over, and 1 see no obstacle/ 7 

“ There is one great and insuperable obstacle, 77 he re- 
plied, in a low, clear voice. “ I do not love you. 77 

“That does not matter/ 7 she said; “neither, in the 
sentimental sense of the word, do I love you. We shall 
not require love; we shall have plenty of money — every- 
thing that our hearts most desire. 7 ’ 

“ Your ideas do not accord with mine, 77 Sir Laurence 
said, slowly. 

Miss Leigh heeded not his words. 

“ Will you take this rose, Sir Laurence?” she asked, 
still determined to gain her end if possible. 

“ I can not/ 7 he answered. 

“ I can understand that you feel a little startled, 77 she 
said; “ the idea is new to you, but it is old to me — take 
some little time to think it over. I do not believe that 
you would ever regret making me your wife; I should bear 
my honors well, and if there were not much love between 
us at the outset, we should always be on friendly terms; 
and in time we might grow to love each other very much. 77 

“ It is impossible/ 5 he cried — “ quite impossible! Do 
not say one word more. 77 

“ 1 — I have a claim upon you/ 7 she urged. 

“ I know it/ 7 he murmured; and in his own heart he 
cried: “ My sin has found me out! 77 

She drew a little nearer to him, and held out the red 
rose to him; the perfume from it reached him, and he 
hated the scent of roses ever afterward. 

“ Will you take it? 77 she asked. 

“ No, I will not/ 7 he replied. 

“ It is the price of my silence — the price of your secret. 
Sir Laurence. 77 

“ 1 will not take it; I will not touch it. 77 
b Slowly, leaf by leaf, she pulled the beautiful rose to 
pieces, and threw the petals on the ground. 

“ Walk over them/ 7 she said; “ and just as easily shall 
I tread under foot all your resistance — just as easily shall 
I bring down your pride, and— and break your heart. 77 

“Marion/ 7 he cried, hoarsely, “this must be some 
cruel jest. You are so proud yourself that it can not be 


A FATAL TEMPTATION". 


115 


possible you would condescend to ask any man to marry 
you against his will?” 

“ I do not look at it in that light,” she responded. “I 
did you once a great service— I saved your life; your char- 
acter, your fair fame, all that you now enjoy, you owe to 
me; but for me you would have been dead; in return I ask 
you to make me Lady Carr. Do not answer me yet— 
think of it; this is what I brought you out into the moon- 
light to say, and I have said it. Let us go back again 
now.” 

Neither of them spoke one word as they returned to the 
house. 

* * * * * * * 

“ I have put my fate to the test,” Marion Leigh said to 
herself; “ and I shall win. He is caught in his own toils; 
I saw from his face that he knew the chain was being 
drawn tightly around him — he can not escape. I will 
secure him without threats if 1 can; but if I am obliged to 
have recourse to threats I will be in earnest. What would 
all his wealth and grandeur be worth to him if any one 
knew that he had once stolen fifty pounds?” 

At any cost, Marion Leigh made up her mind to be 
Lady Carr, of Carrswell; as for being in love with the 
handsome young baronet, she neither cared for nor thought 
of it. She wanted to be mistress of that grand inheritance. 
She had a claim upon him — let him respond to it, or take 
the consequences. 

Marion slept soundly that night; she felt that she was 
safe. Sir Laurence never closed his eyes — to him this was 
the most terrible blow that could have fallen upon him. 
The old horror and shame, remorse and regret, pressed 
upon him. 

“It is the price of my silence, and your secret,” she 
had said; and he dared not ask himself what the words 
meant. He resolved to speak out boldly to her, and tell 
her the whole truth — that he loved some one else, and 
could not marry her. He would see her the first thing in 
the morning and tell her. 

Marion could not fail to observe how ill and worn Sir 
Laurence looked in the fresh morning light; but, although 
she pitied him, she never relented from her purpose. 
During breakfast he asked her if she would have a walk in 
the park with him later on. The doctor smiled when he 


116 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


heard the proposal; in his opinion the young baronet was 
falling deeply in love with Marion, and a very stately mis- 
tress she would make, he thought, for Carrswell. 

“I want to .talk to you, Marion,” said Sir Laurence, 
without any circumlocution, when they stood under the 
oak-trees in the park. “ 1 want to tell you something. 
You wish me, in consideration of the great service you 
once rendered me, to marry you?” 

She bowed in assent. 

“ Last night 1 was too startled and — and embarrassed to 
know what to say; this morning I wish to tell you the 
truth. I can not marry you, for 1 love some one else.” 

“ That is a very feeble reason,” she returned, coolly; 
“ every one gees through some experience of that kind, 1 
suppose. As I tpld you, love is not essential in our case.” 

“ But, Marion, you would not surely marry a man who 
loved another woman?” 

“ Frankly speaking,” she said, “ I would do anything 
to be mistress of Carrswell.” 

“ But marriage without love is monstrous!” he urged. 

“ It is all the same thing six months after marriage, 
whether you marry for love or not,” she answered, quietly. 
“ This fitful fever men call love is, at the best, but of brief 
duration.” 

“ What if 1 tell you that my heart, my faith, my love, 
and my life are pledged?” 

“ I will speak as plainly as you,” she responded. “ You 
must break your pledge. You know the price of my 
silence. ” 

“ What if I tell you that my life will be accursed to me 
unless I marry the woman I love?” 

“ That is all nonsense,” she replied; “ you will be 
happy in time with me.” . 

This, then, was the bitter, horrible price he had to pay 
for his sin. The more he thought of it, the more terrible 
it was to him; all the gratitude that he had once felt 
toward Marion died in that hour. He did not love her — 
he loved Magdalen d’Este with all his heart. Ah! what a 
web he had woven for himself; in what a terrible dilemma 
had his crime placed him! But for that one fatal error, 
how happy he would have been! Still, he could not quite 
realize it— he could not believe that Marion would persist 
in her demand to be made Lady Carr— he had not realized 


A FATAL TEMPTATION". 117 

as yet the strength of her resolution or the greatness of her 
ambition. 

Up to this time she had used no threats; she had merely 
brought forward her claim and had taken her stand on 
the justice of it. But as the days passed by, and Sir 
Laurence made no sign of yielding, Marion determined to 
play her last card. 

The doctor had spoken more than once of going home; 
and his daughter, looking round on all the luxuries her 
soul loved, decided that they should not remain long away 
from Carrs well — she felt that she had a claim on all; why 
should she give them up? 

44 Sir Laurence/' she said, one morning, “ did you hear 
what papa said about leaving here? 1 should like to know 
your decision before we go." 

“ I can come but to one decision, Marion," he answered, 
gravely; “ I can make no other — if you loved me, I should 
thank you for the honor you did me — thank you for what 
1 should feel to be a great compliment; but you have 
acknowledged yourself that there is no question of love, 
you simply wish to reign over this place, and I decline to 
permit you to do so — most emphatically I decline the prop- 
osition you have made to me, for once and for always." 

44 You have thought the matter well over?" she ques- 
tioned. 

44 There was little need for reflection," he responded. 
44 1 love another woman,-and 1 am pledged to her; how, 
then, can I marry you?" 

44 By consulting your best interests and breaking your 
pledge," she replied. 44 1 do not know who it is that you 
love— I do not wish to know; but, if it be one of your set, 
she will not marry you if your secret should be made 
known." 

He grew white even to his lips. That was doubtless 
true; Lady Magdalen d'Este knew him as an honorable 
man; if she heard that he had once stolen fifty pounds, 
the chances were that she would never care to see him 
again. 

44 You could not surely be so base as to betray me?" he 
cried. 44 It is not in human nature." 

44 1 do not wish to be base, as you term it, unless you 
drive me to it," she rejoined. 44 Your secret will always 


118 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


bo safe with me if you will make it my interest to keep 
it.” 

“ You mean if I purchase your silence at the expense of 
my own honor and the ruin of my life's happiness?” 

“ Your honor will not be worth much to you unless that 
past escapade of yours is kept a secret,” she said. “ Men 
recover from many blows; no one ever recovers from — ” 

“ The brand of theft,” he interrupted. “ I know what 
you would say, Marion.” 

“You should not force me to say such things. Why 
not agree to my terms?” 

“ Because they are impossible,” he said, hotly. “ How 
can you ask me? Being a woman, you should be 
womanly.” 

“ I am,” she returned, cynically. 

“You are not,” he cried, as his thoughts reverted to 
the woman he loved; “ no woman worthy of the name 
would make her knowledge of a sin or folly the means of 
carrying out such plans as yours.” 

“ Then I must be content to remain unwomanly in your 
eyes. Sir Laurence,” she said, coolly, “for 1 shall not 
cease to urge my claim. I shall never cease to wish to be 
Lady Carr. I look upon it that it was my good fortune 
that placed this card in my hands; you could not expect 
me to lay it down without playing it.” 

“ Marion,” he asked, “ have you no pity for me? You 
are not cruel by nature. I think* you can scarcely realize 
what you are asking of me.” 

“ I am sorry for you,” she replied; “but my heart is 
set upon gaining my desire. I thought you would have 
more sense than to raise so much opposition. I may as 
well tell you frankly that I intend to have my way. It 
would have been better if it could have been managed 
without threats, pleasantly and in a friendly fashion; if it 
can not, however, 1 shall not hesitate to use my power.” 

“ Tell me the worst I have to expect,” he said, moodily. 

“ I will,” rejoined Marion, calmly. “ If you make me 
Lady Carr, all will be well; and, from the moment you 
give me your promise to marry me, I will never make any 
allusion to your past. If you should be so ill-advised as to 
refuse my request, I shall at once make your secret known. 
I shall, first tell my father — ” 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


119 


“ He would take no notice of it; it is so Ions: ago,” cried 
Sir Laurence. 

“ All the same, it would be made public, and it is the 
publicity which would be your ruin. If you drove me to 
desperate measures, do you know what 1 should do?” 

“ I am prepared to hear anything,” he replied. 

“ I should bring an action for breach of promise of mar- 
riage against you — not that you have ever promised me 
marriage; but it would be the only way in which I could 
bring out the story.” 

“ And you would do this?” he said, looking earnestly 
at her. 

“ If you will not make me mistress of Carrswell, cer- 
tainly,” she replied. “ Let me show you all that lies be- 
fore you. I can most fully prove the theft; l have all the 
papers. 1 have the receipt for the money I lent you. I 
have the letter you wrote to me when you returned that 
money, in which you thanked me for having saved your 
honor and your life.” 

“ Do you know,” he said, slowly, “ that you are mak- 
ing me hate you as I have never hated any one in my life?” 

“ I do not mind that,” she answered, calmly. “ Love 
or hatred, it is a matter of indifference to me, so long as I 
am Lady Carr.” 

He muttered something between his teeth, words not 
pleasant to hear. 

“ You Lave said a great deal about the honor of the 
Carrs,” she continued. “It would bo a nice thing, would 
it not, for the head of the house to be proved a thief? Do 
you think, if ever that story were known, you would be 
invited into any respectable house? Where would be your 
bright prospects then. Sir Laurence, where your future? 
of what use your fortune and your title, when it was known 
that you stole fifty pounds from the father, and borrowed 
it from the daughter to repay?” 


CHAPTER IX. 

Sir Laurence Carr was alone in his own room. How 
the long, weary days had passed since that conversation 
with Marion Leigh, he could not tell. The doctor had 
fixed the time for his departure, and Marion was quite de- 
termined to settle matters before she went away. She 


120 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


would have nothing vague, nothing underhand. She must 
have Sir Laurence’s promise to marry her, or she would at 
once commeuce her threatened exposure. 

“ I will leave you still a few days in which to make up 
your mind,” said Marion, the evening before their depart- 
ure, “ and you can write to tell me your decision. My 
father thinks you are in love with me, so that 1 shall have 
a firm ally in him.” 

It was indeed a relief to the baronet to be alone once 
more. Marion’s presence had grown hateful to him; and 
now, in the solitude of his own room, an idea occurred to 
him of escaping from his difficulties. It was not himself 
that Marion cared for, she wanted Carrswell — wealth — a 
title; but what if, in lieu of this, she would accept a large 
sum of money and leave him free? He wished that he had 
mentioned that to her. It was not too late; he would go 
and see her, hear what she said to the proposition. So, 
in his distress and despair, he « went to Seafield, never 
dreaming that that would confirm in the mind of every 
person the idea that he was in love with Marion. 

“ 1 want to see Marion,” he said, abruptly, to the doc- 
tor. “ 1 have only an hour or two to remain here, and I 
came purposely to see her.” 

“ He evidently intends to make her an offer,” said the 
doctor to himself. 

When Sir Laurence found himself alone with Marion, he 
looked worn and haggard; the face, that should have been 
bright with youth and hope, was lined with pain. She 
stood before him, calm, cool, and calculating. 

“You have come to your senses. Sir Laurence,” she 
said. “ 1 am glad to see you.” 

“ I have come to make you a proposition,” he answered, 
“ one I hope you will accept. You must forgive me for 
saying that the idea of a marriage with you is so utterly 
distasteful to me that I would rather part with half my 
fortune than be driven into it. On the other hand, I dread 
the exposure which you threaten so much that I am willing 
to make any sacrifice other than that you demand rather 
than incur it. If you will forego your resolution, there- 
fore, and leave me free, I will give you half of my fortune, 
and with that you may do much better than by marrying 
me.” 

She stood for a few moments irresolute. 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


in 

“ 1 think we will let matters remain as they are,” she 
said then. “ 1 should lose, not gain, by accepting your 
offer; my marriage with you secures for me at one step all 
that 1 need.” 

“ And takes from me all that 1 most value,” he cried. 

“ That is unfortunate, 1 admit,” she rejoined, coldly; 
“ but it can not be helped.” 

He looked at her with scorn and contempt. 

“ So you absolutely decide,” he said, “ upon forcing me 
into this marriage on which I look with loathing?” 

“ Yes; I must do the best I can for myself, and this 
seems to me the best. You have really played into my 
hands by coming here to see me; there can be but one 
interpretation placed upon your visit. I do not ask for 
this marriage until the year of mourning is over. I shall 
tell my father that our marriage is to take place in the 
spring; if you draw back then, I will publish your story, 
and every one will see what manner of man you really 
are.” 

“ Do you know, Marion, that, if you force me into this 
marriage, I shall positively hate you?” 

She smiled carelessly. 

“ I am willing to run the risk of that,” she answered. 

” You made your conditions,” he said; “ listen to mine. 
You force me into a marriage I hate; but I swear before 
Heaven, except in name, you shall be no wife of mine.' 
The same roof may cover us, for the wretched farce of 
keeping up appearances must be gone through, but the 
greatest stranger in the land will be more to me than you 
shall ever be. A wife you will be, but not beloved and 
esteemed, cherished, and cared for; on the contrary, you 
will be loathed, despised, and hated. Such a prospect can 
have but little charm, even for you.” 

“ I shall be mistress of Carrswell,” she answered, still 
serenely. “ Besides, you will forget all that nonsense in 
time.” 

44 From the time I marry you until the hour in which 
either you or 1 die, I shall hate and detest you,” he went 
on, hotly. “ You have blighted and ruined my life. No 
word shall ever pass my lips to you, except those I am 
compelled to speak. Will you— you who ought to have a 
woman’s pride and a woman’s spirit — will you consent to 
such a marriage as this?” 


122 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


“ Yes,” she replied. “lam content; and as for you— 
why, you will see things differently after a time.” 

“ If this miserable farce is to go on,” he said, “ I shall 
go abroad until the marriage takes place. On my return 
1 will meet you in London, where the ceremony shall be 
performed in the most private manner.” 

“ I shall be quiet satisfied,” Marion answered, cheer- 
fully. 

They parted without another word. Sir Laurence did 
not even stop to bid the doctor adieu. 

“Let them think and say what they like,” he cried, 
recklessly; “ it can not hurt me!” 

******* 

'Once more the earl and countess were at Swanscourt. 
The first news they heard after their arrival was that Sir 
Laurence Carr had gone to Egypt. The earl was the first 
to hear it, and he hastened home to tell the news. The 
countess and Lady Magdalen were sitting on the lawn. 
Lady Norwich reading, Lady Magdalen, with a happy 
smile on her face, waiting for him who was to come no 
more. 

He would soon be here now; and when he came he 
would ask her to be his wife. The weight of her own 
gladness seemed more than she could bear. She heard a 
footstep; but she dared not look up. 

This was a bitter-sweet moment in Magdalen’s life. She 
heard a step, but dared not raise her happy eyes, lest the 
love hidden in them should be plainly seen. The step 
drew nearer and nearer; then the earl spoke, and she knew 
it was her father, not her lover, who stood beside her. 

“ I have heard such strange news,” he said — “ news 
that has quite disappointed me.” 

“ What is it?” asked the countess, languidly. 

“ Sir Laurence Carr has gone to Egypt; and the most 
annoying thing is that he went only a few days ago. He 
might have deferred his departure a little longer, to say 
good-bye to us.” 

“ Perhaps he will not be long away,” said the countess. 

“ One does not go to Egypt for a day or two,” returned 
the earl. “ I am really sorry.” 

“ Why has he gone?” asked Lady Norwich. 

“ I can not quite make out; no one seems to know. I 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 123 

hear that he has been looking exceedingly ill for some time 
past.” 

“ The change will do him good,” said the countess; 
“ but it is rather strange that he should have gone away 
without leaving any kind of farewell message for us.” 
The languor was suddenly replaced by the liveliest concern 
as she sprung from her seat. “ Oh, look — look at Magda- 
len!” she cried; and the earl saw that his daughter, the 
very pride and delight of his life, was lying back in the 
chair senseless. 

“ It must be the heat,” said Lady Norwich; but the 
earl muttered some strong words between his teeth. 

The next morning a letter came for Lady Magdalen, 
and she knew the handwriting the moment her eyes fell 
upon it. It was from Sir Laurence, written and posted 
the day before he left England. She opened and read it, 
the death-knell of all her sweet hopes and love. 

“ If I could see you,” it began — “ if I could tell you all 
that is in my heart, I should be happier and less desperate. 
As I write to you, my darling, your beautiful face seems 
to be before me. How shall I say good-bye? I have loved 
you with a great and everlasting love; I shall love you un- 
til I die, my last thoughts will be of you. Under Heaven 
there lives no man more wretched than I. There is a 
secret in my past life, and that secret lies in a woman’s 
hands; to keep it from the world, I am compelled to marry 
her. 1 do not love her; I love you with my whole heart. 
I make no excuse for myself. I must either do what I am 
doing, or be the first to bring disgrace on an old and hon- 
ored name. 

“ Darling, adieu! 1 am leaving England because I am 
unworthy to see you or speak to you again.” 

When she laid that letter down, Lady Magdalen d’Este 
knew that her own happiness was wrecked also. 

If Lord or Lady Norwich ever guessed the unhappy 
secret of their beloved child, they never alluded to it. 
They loved her, if possible, better than before, they 
cherished her more tenderly, but they never spoke of Sir 
Laurence. 

In the following spring a strange marriage took place in 
the church of St. Clement Danes, in London. The bride- 
groom was a fine, handsome, fair-haired man, whose face 


124 A FATAL TEMPTATION. 

was white, haggard, aDd marked with deep lines, whose 
eyes were filled with despair. He did not look at the girl 
he married when he put the ring on her finger; he shud- 
dered as his hand touched hers. The bride was young and 
beautiful; but she did not receive the least attention from 
the bridegroom. There were no bride-maids, and the only 
witnesses of that sunless, joyless wedding were the bride's 
father and the old pew-opener. There were no carriages, 
no congratulations; never was wedding so dismal. 

When the ceremony was over, the bride's father bid the 
young pair adieu. He was puzzled and perplexed; but as 
neither Sir Laurence nor his wife chose to enlighten him 
as to the reason of their strange conduct, he maintained a 
discreet silence; and when he returned to Seafield every 
one there noticed how little Dr. Leigh said about his 
daughter. 


CHAPTER X. 

During their stay at the Hotel Meurice, in Paris, Sir 
Laurence read a paragraph in one of the English daily 
papers that blanched his face and made his strong frame 
tremble. He had been married nearly two months then. 
The paragraph contained the intelligence that the Earl 
and Countess of Norwich were leaving Swanscourt on ac- 
count of the delicate health of Lady Magdalen d'Este, 
whom the doctors had ordered to a warm climate after her 
serious illness. That was all; but he knew how to read 
between the lines; he knew why she had been ill — why the 
gentle heart had failed. 

Hot words rose to his lips, fierce thoughts possessed his 
brain, and then he had to remind himself that, after all, 
it was but the consequence of his crime. It was of no use 
blaming any one else. He had sinned, and he must pay 
the penalty. 

Lady Carr was very happy after her own fashion; all the 
disagreeableness of the situation was lost upon her. She 
treated her husband with good-humored forbearance; she 
never made the least advances to him; she never sought in 
any way to win a loving word from him; she quite ignored 
his wretchedness. 

“ He will come to his senses by and by," she would say; 
and in the meantime she enjoyed herself. They remained 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


125 


for some months at the Hotel Meurice, for the gay and 
brilliant life of Paris delighted her. She was never wearied 
of it. They had the best-appointed suite of rooms in the 
hotel, a luxurious carriage, and fine horses. She wore the 
most elegant dresses and magnificent jewelry. She was 
Lady Carr, of Carrsweli; and, if her husband never ad- 
dressed her, save when he was compelled to do so, never 
went out with her, treated her with coldness and indiffer- 
ence such as he never showed to strangers, it mattered little 
to her. Lady Carr had the entree into the best circles in 
Paris; she was feted and flattered. At first there was 
some little wonder expressed that she was never seen out 
with Sir Laurence; but the gay Parisians never stopped to 
inquire into the eccentric ways of an Englishman. 

Lady Carr disarmed all suspicion by the good-humored, 
careless manner in which she spoke of her husband. 

He did not care for gayety, he disliked balls, he had no 
passion for music; the impression she gave of him was that 
he was a sullen, almost morose man, and, as she was a 
handsome, elegant woman, her version was accepted. 

When they had thoroughly “ done ” Paris, they went to 
Italy, where they remained for nearly a year. Sir Laurence 
would not go back to Carrsweli. It seemed to him almost 
a sacrilege to take Marion to reign there as mistress; and, 
as the time passed by, a strange thing happened. Lady 
Carr, who had prided herself on her lack of sentiment, 
who had declared that affection between herself and Sir 
Laurence was a matter of perfect indifference when she 
had entered into the compact for her marriage— this cyn- 
ical, haughty, cold woman learned to love her husband 
with all the strength of her proud, passionate heart. 

It was then that the real torture and the great misery of 
his life began; he was by nature courteous and gentle to 
all women, and it was difficult for him always to repulse 
his wife; it would have been difficult for any man. The 
first time she came to him and laid her hand. caressingly 
on his head, he was astonished. 

“ What beautiful hair you have, Laurence!” she said, 
quietly. He rose haughtily and drew himself away from 
her. 

“You must 'not forget our contract,” he returned, 
curtly. “ It does not admit of compliments.” 

She took courage at last, and one morning — they were 


126 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


staying in Florence then, at an English hotel, and he sat 
in the balcony, reading the English papers and smoking 
his cigar — she went to him and laid one arm round his 
neck. If a serpent had touched him, he could not have 
started more violently. 

“ Laurence,” she faltered, 41 1— I want you to be friends 
with me.” 

Most men would have been attracted by her beauty — she 
wore a dress of pale amber, half shrouded in black lace, 
and a little bunch of pansies at her throat; .her handsome 
face was softened into tenderness, her large dark eyes were 
brilliant. 

“ Laurence, let me speak to you,” she went on. “We 
have been married more than a year now, and you have 
never spoken one kind word to me yet. 1 want to ask you 
if we could not be friends.” 

“1 am as friendly as 1 can be with you,” he said, 
coldly. 

“ But, Laurence, even if you could not love me — could 
you not like me a little more than you do now?” she 
pleaded. 

“ No,” he answered, sternly; “ when you forced me to 
marry you, I told you that I hated and loathed you as 
surely as man never hated woman before. You persisted 
in marrying me after that. You were content then with 
the terms of our marriage — you must be content now.” 

“ But,” she said, gently, “ everything is changed. In 
those days I thought of nothing but how grand it would be 
to be called Lady Carr, of Carrswell— I did not know even 
what love meant. Now — oh, Laurence, I never dreamed 
that this pleasure and this pain would come to me — now 1 
love you!” 

His face hardened. 

“ When you forced me into this wretched bondage,” he 
said, “ I loved the fairest and sweetest woman upon earth. 
I had to give her up for you — you will understand now, 
perhaps, what torture 1 suffered.” 

She looked at him with wistful eyes. 

“ I wish you would forgive me, Laurence. It was a 
mean and contemptible thing to do — a base betrayal of 
your trust — but Carrswell and the position were too much 
for me. I wish,” she said, gently, “ you would forgive 
me and try to like me a little. When I see how happy 


A FATAL TEMPTATION". 


127 


other wives are in their husbands' love, I — long to be 
loved.” 6 

“ You will never be loved by me,” he answered, in a 
cold, clear voice. “ Do not let me hear another word on 
this subject. You have blighted and ruined my life; I 
can not forget that. ” 

But she went on. 

“ I love you now, Laurence. If the time were to come 
over again, 1 — I should act differently.” 

It is too late for regret, too late to undo the past,” he 
interrupted. ‘‘You were quite willing that we should 
marry in hate, and not in love; let it be so. I repeat, do 
not speak to me on this subject again.” 

After that she grew desperate, as women who are scorned 
will do; her jewels and dresses, all the luxuries that she 
had so dearly prized, palled upon her. She cared no 
longer for gayety and pleasure, she cared only to win her 
husband's love. She grew thin and pale. Still her hus- 
band, whom every one liked and loved, was cold and hard 
as adamant to her, even hated her. She read dislike in 
the blue eyes that would never meet her own, in the scorn- 
ful curve of his lips. Once she knelt down by his side, 
and, with passionate tears, murmured: 

“ Forgive me, and love me a little, Laurence.” 

“ I liked you better when you told me frankly you 
wanted Carrs well, and not me, than 1 like you now,” he 
returned, frigidly. 

“ Will you always be hard and cruel?” she asked — 
“ always?” 

“ You have that for which you bargained,” he rejoined; 
“ you are Lady Carr — mistress of Carrswell. You knew 
my heart aud my love had gone from me when you forced 
me into this marriage.” 

As the days sped on, aud Sir Laurence remained the 
same — cold, unheeding, unforgiving— she grew madly 
jealous. She watched him, followed him; she wept and 
wrung her hands in despair. She hated every woman to 
whom he spoke a kind word. In a furious passion of 
jealousy, she said to him one day: 

“You told me you loved a woman once. If ever I find 
her, 1 will kill her.” 

“ You have almost killed her,” he answered, sadly. 
“ She had little life apart from me.” 


128 


A FATAL TEMPTATION - . 


She turned from him, deathly pale, stricken dumb. 

One evening, as she .stood in the hall of the hotel, Sir 
Laurence came in. The landlord was there; and, with a 
complacent smile, he said to Sir Laurence: 

“ We have another English party, Sir Laurence; an earl 
and his wife, with their daughter.” 

Marion had gone up to her husband's side — not that she 
hoped he would speak to her, but because she could not 
keep away from him; she heard what the landlord said, 
and felt interested. 

“Who are they?” asked the baronet. 

The landlord placed the visitors' book in his hands. 

“ See, Sir Laurence,'' he said — “ the Earl and Countess 
of Norwich and Lady Magdalen d'Este.” 

The book fell from Sir Laurence's hand, and he stag- 
gered back, like a man who had received a blow. Marion 
gave a little cry, and he recovered himself in a moment. 

“ I am surprised,'' he said, in a low, hoarse voice — 
“ startled and surprised. The earl and countess are 
neighbors and friends of mine.” 

Marion could not fail to observe his intense agitation. 
Her suspicions were aroused. She looked again at the 
visitors' book — was it possible that Lady Magdalen d'Este 
was the girl he loved? Blind, furious jealousy took pos- 
session of her as she went slowly from the hall back to her 
own room. 

“ That is the woman he loves,” she said to herself, 
“ and I vowed, if ever 1 found her, I would kill her.” 

The remembrance of her husband's white face and his 
intense emotion made her almost desperate. The same 
evening, when she saw him alone in their salon, she went 
up to him again. She knelt down before him, and 
stretched out her arms to him with a yearning cry. 

“ Love me, Laurence,” she said, as the passionate tears 
fell like rain. “ Love me, Laurence. Do you know that 
I would give all I have in this world — that I would give 
even life itself — for one kiss from your lips?” 

He looked at her coldly. 

“ Do you know,” he replied, “ that by your ambition 
and your avarice you have spoiled three lives?” and he left 
her there. 

***** * * 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


129 


There was no avoiding a meeting; the earl and countess 
expressed a moderate degree of pleasure at seeing Sir 
Laurence, and inquired after his wife; but he made no 
offer to introduce her. Lady Magdalen was not well, and 
kept her room. They would only remain two days, and 
then they were going in Lord Sylvester’s yacht for a cruise. 

Only two days! Sir Laurence, however, made up his 
mind that he would see Lady Magdalen once more. He 
was so unutterably wretched, he hated the weary burden 
of his life so intensely, he cared little how long it lasted. 
Marion, loving, jealous, despairing, was a hundred times 
more revolting and horrible to him than Marion brisk, 
careless, and indifferent. 

Seeing Lady Magdalen would be like a glimpse of 
heaven; she who was so sweet, so gentle, so good, might 
perhaps tell him what to do. Half an hour with her 
would change the whole current of his life. He would not 
write to her, he would not ask for an interview; but he 
would wait for her. She would be sure to come out on the 
terrace in the evening; he would await her there. And, 
just as he decided on watching for Lady Magdalen, his wife 
decided on watching him, and, if he kissed the hand of this 
woman, whom intuitively she knew he loved, she would be 
revenged. She watched" him keenly, but in vain. He 
certainly wrote no note and sent no message; but her in- 
stinct told her that he intended to see Lady Magdalen 
d'Este. 

“They will talk about me,” she said. “He will tell 
her how unhappy he is, how much he dislikes me, and she 
will sympathize with him.” 

A fierce flame of jealousy burned in her heart. All day 
she watched, but Sir Laurence never left his room; he 
dined late, he said little, he seemed lost in thought. 

“ He is thinking of her,” said the unhappy woman to 
herself — “ only of her.” 

Toward evening the Earl of Norwich sent to ask if Sir 
Laurence would join him for an hour; he was going for a 
walk; but the answer returned was that Sir Laurence 
hoped his lordship would excuse him, as he was not well. 

The terrace of the hotel was long and wide and over- 
looked grounds that sloped down to the river. It was 
about ten feet high, and the balustrade did not run straight 
along; at intervals there was a break in it, a gap left pur- 


130 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


posely to be jailed with tall shrubs. It was, perhaps, 
slightly dangerous; but as no accident had ever occurred, 
danger was never thought of. 

Lady Carr, watching, saw, when the evening shadows 
fell dark and soft, her husband go out on to the terrace; 
and, perhaps half an hour afterward, she saw a vision 
which set her heart aflame. A tall, beautiful girl, dressed 
in white, with a crimson flower on her breast, a black lace 
shawl over her head and shoulders, crossed the little side 
hall and went out on to the terrace. 

“ They will meet,” Lady Carr said to herself. 

She swiftly glided back through the salon, passed 
through one of the French windows that opened on to the 
end of the terrace, and was there before them. She 
crouched behind a tall shrub, where she could hear and 
see all that passed without being observed herself. 

She saw them meet. Sir Laurence's face was pale and 
full of emotion. Lady Magdalen's was deathly white and 
trembling. 

“ I have not startled you?” he said. “ You knew 1 was 
here?” 

44 Yes,” she answered, 44 1 knew you were here; mamma 
told me.” 

44 Thank Heaven,” he said, 4 4 that I see you once more; 
my whole soul has thirsted to be with you once again.” 

44 1 am glad to see you,” she said, simply. 44 1 knew 
that we must meet some day.” 

44 1 thank Heaven,” he repeated, fervently, 44 that 1 
have lived to see you again. Oh, Magdalen, for those few 
weeks of happiness I have suffered sorely! My dear, lost 
love, what have you thought of me?” 

44 1 have thought of you kindly always,” she returned, 
gently. 

44 You knew that I loved you?” 

44 Yes,” with a faint blusL 44 You said that you had a 
secret in your life. It is that secret which has parted us; 
I knew it.” 

44 You are right,” he said; 44 it is. May I tell you now 
what that secret was? Time was when I would rather 
have died than that you should have known it; now I 
would rather that you should know what parted us, and 
how utterly impossible it was for me to do otherwise than 
I did. Will you come with me where I can find a seat for 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


131 


you? You will be tired. Oh, Magdalen, do you remem- 
ber that one hour under the chestnut-tree ?” 

“ We will not think of it,” she said, gently; and they 
moved away together, side by side, in the dark, fragrant 
night. 

They did not hear the hushed sound of light footsteps, 
they did not see a white, wild face peering after them. 
They had forgotten Lady Carr as completely as though she 
did not exist. They walked on until they reached one of 
the seats placed against the marble balustrade. They sat 
down there, unconscious of being observed, unconscious of 
the dark eyes watching every movement. 

Then Lady Magdalen spoke. 

“ Tell me the story of your secret. I shall be the bet- 
ter, the happier for knowing it.” 

And then he told her the story of his temptation and 
his fall. She listened intently. When he had finished, 
she laid her hand on his. 

“Was that all — was that the secret which parted us?” 

“ Yes,” he answered, sadly, “ that was all.” 

“ Dear,” she said, “ it was the folly of youth — scarcely 
a crime. At any rate, it need not have separated us.” 

The tall shrub a few feet behind them shook; there was 
a faint cry, a half-strangled call, then silence for some 
moments — intense, painful silence, followed by the sound 
of a fall; then silence again. 

“ What is it, Laurence?” asked Lady Magdalen, look- 
ing pale and frightened. 

He rose and looked behind the shrub; there was nothing 
to be seen, and through the gap in the balustrade he 
peered down to the grounds below. 

“ It is nothing,” he said. “ Perhaps a stone has fallen, 
or a flower- vase; there is nothing here.” 

They listened for a few minutes; all was silence; not the 
faintest sound disturbed it. 

“ That need not have separated us,” repeated Lady 
Magdalen. “ Would to Heaven you had trusted me!” 

There was little more to be said. Never for one mo- 
ment did he forget the respect due to her. He said noth- 
ing of the love that filled his heart. 

They parted that night without the hope or expectation 
of ever meeting in this world again. 

But in the morning there was terrible consternation in 


132 


A FATAL TEMPTATION. 


the hotel. Lady Carr was missing, and, after some little 
search, she was found lying dead in the grounds below the 
terrace. She had been dead for hours. 

She had evidently fallen through the gap in the marble 
balustrade, for she lay just underneath, and some of the 
crimson flowers had fallen with her. When Sir Laurence 
was taken to the spot by the terrified landlord, he knew at 
once what had happened. His wife had watched him and 
followed him; then she had either taken a false step and 
fallen through the open space where the railing should 
have been, or, in her jealous despair, she had flung herself 
down. Whichever it was, the secret died with her. 

Lady Carr was buried in the cemetery at Florence. 
The old doctor came to her funeral. Her marriage had 
been mysterious to him, her death was not less so. 

The earl and countess went away with their daughter, 
and Sir Laurence returned to Carrswell. 

Four years afterward, a little scene on the lawn there 
attracted the attention of Lady Magdalen Carr, the happy 
mother of a sturdy little son two years old. The child had 
gathered, in his baby fashion, a blooming red rose, and, 
running up to where his father sat, he thrust it into his 
face. Sir Laurence drew back with a startled cry. The 
very fragrance brought back so forcibly to him the time 
and the hour when Marion Leigh had stood before him 
holding out to him the red rose that meant so much to 
him. 

“ Never do that again, Harry,” he said. “ Papa hates 
roses.” 

“Papa hates roses!” lisped the boy. 

Sir Laurence’s thoughts went back to the woman, long 
dead now, who had cried out that she would give her life 
for one kiss from his lips. Then he went up to the wife 
whom he loved with a perfect love. 

“ It was when the woodbine was in bloom that I saw 
you first,” he said, tenderly; “ so its flowers will always 
be the sweetest and dearest to me.” 

And when she kissed his face, there was no shadow 
upon it. 


THE END. 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


CHAPTER I. 

There never was a more beautiful, more perfect, or 
colder Christmas Eve than this on which my story begins. 

How I, George Rayner, a bachelor, who never volun- 
tarily exposed myself to discomfort of any kind, came to 
be traveling on Christmas Eve is the story I have to tell. 
I had left my own house, a pretty, modern villa on Den- 
mark Hill, and 1 had to reach Dene Manor House before 
the night ended. Dene Manor House, near the town of 
Queen’s Lynne, was in Hampshire, and stood near the sea. 
It was a long journey, and not a pleasant one; but the 
beauty of the night will be impressed upon me until I die. 
All that poets have sung of Christmas Eve was faint and 
weak in comparison with the actual beauty of it. There 
had been a fall of snow during the last three days, and a 
hard frost during each night; the result was that the world 
was covered with pure white, and white snow under a dark- 
blue sky is one of the loveliest sights in this world so full 
of beauty. 

Frozen snow is decidedly even more beautiful than fall- 
ing snow, and these two beauties were combined this 
Christmas Eve. The snow of the last few days had frozen, 
and a fresh shower fell at intervals. How loVely those 
intervals were while they lasted! The moon shone bright 
as day, and the stars shone bright; the sky was deep dark 
blue and cloudless. The moonlight threw graceful 
shadows over the bare fields and the high-roads; it shone 
in the great icicles that hung from the branches of the 
trees and the roofs of the houses; it glistened in the hoar- 
frost that fringed the hedges and on the snow that lay in 
the laurel leaves; the wind rocked the great branches, and 

( 133 ) 


134 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


chanted a grand “ Hallelujah ” among the tall trees. The 
Christmas stars shone clear and bright; Christmas music 
seemed to fill the air, as it always does on Christmas Eve; 
then, when the interval was ended, came just a colder 
wind. Then a cloud passed over the moon’s face; one by 
one the stars ceased shining, until the whole sky grew 
dark; then the fall of the soft, white snow began, a few 
flakes at first, and they melted as they touched the frozen 
ones, then softer, thicker, larger, fuller, until the whole 
air was filled with them, and nothing could be seen except 
the thick, falling snow, blinding, piercing, yet so beautiful 
I could have taken it in my hands and kissed it. 

I had left London when the glow and warmth and greet- 
ings of Christmas were at their height, the streets full of 
well-dressed, happy people, the shop windows full of 
Christmas dainties, the Christmas bells chiming, Christ- 
mas greetings on every lip, and now I stood alone in the 
deep heart of the country, amid the softly falling snow, 
the silence broken only by the Christmas carol that the 
wind would chant in the great bare trees, and the gentle 
whir of the snow-flakes as they fell, soft and thick. 

The train stopped at the pretty, old-fashioned station of 
Queen’s Lynne, a station that in summer is covered with 
the great spreading boughs of the chestnut-trees. Even as 
I left the carriage I could hear the rapid rush of the river 
Lynne singing about Christmas Eve and the stars that had 
been shining on its breast. 1 heard, too, the sweep of the 
wind through the Lynne woods, as it chanted of the won- 
ders and glories of Christmas Eve. There was one solitary 
porter on the platform, and I was the only passenger by 
that train. 

“ The carriage from the Manor House,” said the porter, 
touching his cap. “It is waiting, sir;” and 1 followed 
him to the great, empty station-yard. There stood the 
carriage, a pair of excellent horses, and a stalwart-looking 
coachman. 

“ Dene Manor House, sir,” said the coachman; and the 
next minute it was bowling along the white, frozen, hard 
road, leaving behind me the rush of the river and the 
chanting of the wind among the pine-trees. 

I can tell, in few words, what brought me from warm, 
cheery, smoky London to Dene Manor House. I, George 
Rayner, am one of the celebrated firm of Rayner & Blen- 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


135 


heim, Solicitors, Lincoln’s Inn'Fields, London; my private 
residence is a pretty villa on Denmark Hill; my partner 
lives at Berkhamsted. 

Our firm is a well-known one; our clients are, most of 
them, steady-going, wealthy people, who never either make 
or lose a lot of money, speculate, or gamble — steady coun- 
try people. We could almost calculate our yearly income 
beforehand, knowing so well what the habits and customs 
of our clients are. Twenty years ago we had on our books 
two cousins, Dudley Beresford, a frank, handsome young 
man, whose predilections were all for country life, and 
John Ruthven, who had but one desire, and that was to 
join the Civil Service in India. 

These cousins — both handsome young men— met fre- 
quently at our office; they, with my partner and myself, 
were on most friendly and intimate terms. We dined to- 
gether frequently; we went together to the theater; the 
cousins and I went down to my partner’s house at Berk- 
hamsted. In those days they did not do much business 
with us; they were neither of them rich, but they consid- 
ered us as family solicitors. 

They were both ambitious. Dudley Beresford wanted 
a country-house with plenty of land lying round it; John 
scorned the idea of farming, or agriculture, or country 
life. 

“ India and the Civil Service for me. I shall make a 
fortune,” he said to his cousin Dudley, “ while you are 
looking to see if last year’s seed has been sown, or whether 
it is coming up.” 

“You will never make a fortune at all,” said Dudley 
Beresford, with grim disbelief. “ You are not the kind 
of man who makes money.” 

“You will see,” laughed John. “When the time 
comes for you to acknowledge the truth, you will say, 
‘ John was the man to make money, after all.’ ” 

“ You may make, but you will never save it.” 

“ You will see,” laughed John; and the subject was dis- 
missed. 

That was twenty years ago, and after that we lost sight 
of them. We heard that Dudley Beresford had married a 
wife with money, had purchased a fine estate in Hampshire, 
and was a prosperous man. John Ruthven had entered 
the Civil Service and had gone to India. We did hear, 


136 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


some few years afterward, that John had married in India, 
and that his wife died; that he had sent home a little girl 
to the care of his cousin, Dudley Beresford, squire of Dene 
Manor. 

Then for many years we heard no more. Occasionally 
we read the name of Dudley Beresford in the papers; he 
was no mean politician, and there had been some mention 
of his going into Parliament; lately we had lost sight even 
of him. What was our surprise on receiving a letter from 
India, from one of the best firms in Madras, telling us 
that John Kuthven had died somewhat suddenly, and that 
by his own arrangement all his affairs were intrusted to 
us. There was among the papers a long letter from the 
late John Kuthven to us, telling us what a large fortune 
he had accumulated, and that he intended leaving all to 
his daughter, with the exception of ten thousand pounds, 
which he wished to be given to his cousin, Dudley Beres- 
ford, in return for all the kindness he had shown to his 
daughter, Viola Kuthven. 

The letter went on to say that the writer, John Kuth- 
ven, felt that he had, to all outward appearance, neglected 
his daughter, but he excused himself on the ground that 
he was always working hard for her. He meant to make 
himself a millionaire, and Viola a great heiress; he meant 
to come home and devote himself to her; but illness had 
stepped in, and feeling that he was going to die, he had 
written this letter to his old friends, Kayner & Blenheim, 
and should send it, together with his will, and all the 
papers appertaining to his fortune, through the hands of 
the firm in Madras who had hitherto conducted his affairs. 
He begged, as a personal favor to himself, that one of the 
firm would go down to Dene Manor and see his daughter, 
and attend to her interest. To this letter of John Kuth- 
ven's was added a long letter from the Madras firm, telling 
how he had died. We found, on reading the will, that 
we, with Dudley Beresford, were the executors of the will, 
trustees of the property, and guardians of the girl, with a 
very handsome legacy left to each of us. 

We were a whole day reading through that mass of 
papers, and when the business was ended we looked at each 
other in amazement at the enormous fortune acquired by 
John Kuthven. His daughter would certainly be one of 
the wealthiest heiresses in .England, 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


137 


“He always declared that he should be a rich man,” 
said my partner, Mr. Blenheim. “ Do you remember how 
the squire laughed?” 

“Yes, 1 remember; but he has spent all his life in 
making money, and has had no time for enjoying it. 1 
would rather make less and enjoy more.” 

“ Perhaps he enjoyed making and saving as much as we 
should enjoy spending,” said my partner. “ It will be a 
money-making affair for us, George, but you must attend 
to it. Write to the squire at once — better not tell him the 
whole story; I do not think it would be wise. See how 
the land lies, see what the squire is like, what the girl is 
like; use your usual discretion, George.” 

The result of my writing to the squire, telling him that, 
in consequence of John Ruthven’s death, 1 had some busi- 
ness matters to discuss with him, was that I received a 
letter in return, saying how glad the squire was to hear 
from me; how pleased he should be to renew an old friend- 
ship, and begging of me to combine pleasure with business, 
and spend a few days at Christmas with them. He added 
that he did not know what affairs of poor John Ruthven’s 
could need discussion. 

So here 1 was, on Christmas Eve, going to tell a young 
lady whom I had never seen, aud heard of for the first 
time, that she was worth a quarter of a million of money. 
It was a pleasant errand, but a strange one. What would 
she be like — pretty or plain, meek or proud? I felt, 
although 1 was a middle-aged gentleman, knowing nothing 
of romance, that I was performing the part of an elderly 
fairy. I was going with a quarter of a million of money, 
as it were, in my hands, to give a young lady — who prob- 
ably did not know that she had a penny — a quarter of a 
million of money! 

1 thought of this as I drove along the white, frozen roads. 
I could hear ever so faintly the chiming of the Christmas 
bells. I could hear at times the faint echo of music which 
I knew to be the waits. My heart grew bright and glad; 
some of my lost youth came back to me; I felt that I was 
further from earth and nearer to heaven than I had been 
for many years, as most men do on Christmas Eve; and I 
wondered with my whole heart what she would be like, 
and whether she would be worthy of the fortune I was, in 
a fashion, taking to her. 


138 


ttHDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


The carriage stopped for a few moments before the park 
gates, and I told the coachman I should like to walk to 
the house, for to my London- tired eyes there was no sight 
so beautiful as the moon shining on the snow and the ever- 
greens. 


CHAPTER II. 

It was a long, broad, and winding walk from the park 
gates to the house. It was lined on either side by tall trees 
and masses of evergreens. Great shining laurels, their 
broad leaves holding little nests of snow; tall, straight firs, 
each one looking just fitted for a Christmas-tree; clusters 
of white laurestinas — surely the fairest of winter blooms. 
Above all, I noted a profusion of holly-trees; they were 
unusually large, and bore innumerable quantities of red 
berries; beautiful trees, with glassy green leaves, on which 
the white snow lay lightly, and the scarlet berries which 
shone like flame. 

I stopped to look at them, for I had never beheld such 
fine holly-trees, and 1 heard, suddenly, to my intense sur- 
prise, the sound of a hushed sob. 

Surely I must be mistaken. At some little distance I 
saw lights shining from the large, broad windows of the 
house; on the other side I saw the white, frozen waters of 
what I knew afterward was called the “ Danesmere.” 
There was no trace of any one, besides which, it was not 
probable that any one would be sobbing and weeping out 
here, under the holly-trees, at this time on Christmas Eve. 
It must have been the sough of the wind among the trees. 
I saw that a narrow path led from the holly to the mere; 
then ] went on, and in a few minutes the house lay before 
me, and no more gladdening sight ever met the eyes of a 
man. A large, old-fashioned house, the gray walls of 
which were covered with ivy; the windows were very large 
and square, and from each of them came a stream of 
ruddy, crimson light that seemed to warm the very snow 
itself. 

A picture of Christmas warmth and Christmas happi- 
ness. “ Light hearts and fair faces are there,” 1 thought 
to myself, and suddenly, without rhyme or reason, I re- 
membered the sound I had heard in the holly-trees. Of 
course it might be nothing; in all human probability it 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


139 


was nothing; but I should not be quite happy without I 
was sure, and it would not take me two minutes to return. 

I almost laughed at my own folly, but I went back, and 
stood quite still where 1 had heard the sounds before. 

Ah! I was not mistaken. It came from a great holly- 
tree, further down on the left-hand side, and nearer to the 
mere. 1 could see nothing, but it was a woman’s sob, 1 
felt sure; again and again a great, passionate sob, as though 
some one’s heart were breaking; not at all the sound for 
Christmas Eve. 

The snow fell no longer in thick, white flakes — it lay 
frozen on the ground; the moon was shining bright as day, 
the stars were gleaming, the sweet mystery of Christmas 
Eve seemed brooding alike in the silent skies and on the 
white earth. Who could be hidden among the holly-trees, 
weeping, on the night when the very angels rejoiced, and 
men were full of good wishes for one another? 

I went cautiously to see, scarce treading the snow under- 
foot, scarce bending the green boughs with their burdeu 
of white snow and red berries. I came nearer and nearer, 
and there, hidden by thick clusters of holly, 1 saw the 
slight, tall figure of a young girl; a thick black shawl had 
been thrown over her head and shoulders, but in the pas- 
sionate abandonment of her grief she had thrown it aside. 
The beautiful head had no covering except its own coil of 
golden hair; the face raised in such piteous distress to the 
moonlit skies was as beautiful as the faces one sees only in 
pictures and in dreams. What a rain of tears! What 
bitter sobs! 

“1 am desolate!” she cried, ‘‘desolate on the face of 
the earth! No one loves me — no one cares for me!” 

The words ceased suddenly. She had found out that I 
was there, and we stood looking in frightened silence at 
each other. She could not mistake me for anything but a 
middle-aged gentleman — 1 might have mistaken her for a 
spirit of the woods, or a fairy, only that I knew she was a 
mortal woman in bitter pain. 

“ Who are you?” she said at last, clasping two very 
white, pretty hands as she spoke. “ Who are you?” 

“ Do not be afraid,” 1 said, gently. 

“lam not afraid,” she answered. “ I shall find noth- 
ing worse than that which 1 came to seek.” 

“ What did you come to seek?” 1 asked. 


140 UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 

“ Death !” she replied. 

“ Death?” 1 cried — “ on Christmas Eve? Death, and 
you so young, so beautiful?” 

“ I think my youth and my beauty have been a curse to 
me,” she said,' bitterly. “ And why should 1 not die on 
Christmas Eve? What is Christmas Eve to me? I am 
the more miserable because every one else is happy. What 
are the Christmas stars to me, and the Christmas bells, 
and the evergreens? All less than nothing. When one is 
driven mad with intolerable pain, what are such things?” 

I saw her face more plainly then, for the moon shone 
full upon it, and I was startled. I saw in it some resem- 
blance, so vague that first I could not catch it, then it 
grew plainer to me. Wonder of wonders! The face of 
the girl hidden under the holly berries resembled the beau- 
tiful face of John Ruthven, as I had known him years ago. 
I had always considered him one of the handsomest men of 
my acquaintance; here was the same white, low brow, the 
same dark, delicate, level eyebrows, the same violet eyes, 
with lashes of singular beauty and length. In this case 
clusters of gold seemed to crown the white brow, and the 
mouth was just as sweet as it was proud. She must surely 
be John Ruthven’s daughter, or she would never be so 
much like him. Yet, could it be possible that the girl 
who was heiress to a quarter of a million of money should 
be longing for death because she fancied life was hard to 
bear? 

“ Who are you?” she repeated. “ Why have you come 
here to me? I thought no one would find me. Who are 
you?” 

“ I will tell you,” 1 answered. “ You will find it diffi- 
cult to believe me, and as wonderful as it is difficult. I 
am, or rather I was, your father’s friend. ” 

“ My father’s friend!” she repeated; and I saw that her 
interest was aroused at once. “ My father’s friend! Are 
you quite sure there is no mistake?” 

“ Not if you are Viola Ruthven,” I said; and she start- 
ed in wonder. 

“ I am Viola Ruthven,” she answered. 

“ Ah! then,” 1 replied, “ there is a brighter fate in 
store for Viola Ruthven than coming out to seek death on 
Christmas Eve.” 

“ There can be no bright fate for me,” she said, bitter- 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


141 


ly. “1 am fatherless, friendless, with one exception, and 
to him, my only friend, 1 have brought more misery than 
anything else. I am penniless. I do not see what fate 
can do for me.” 

“ How old are you?” 1 asked. 

“ Eighteen,” she replied, with a dreary sigh. 

“ Do you not think that is too young to despair?” 

“ Then it should be too young to suffer,” she said. 
“You have not told me what brought you here.” 

“ 1 came to the Manor House to see the squire on busi- 
ness, and I was walking from the park gates to the house, 
because the night was so wsird-like and lovely. I heard 
you weeping as I passed by the holly-trees, and 1 came 
back to see what it was.” 

“ I believe it was Heaven who sent you,” she said, “ for 
1 came out to seek death. Who are you?” 

There was a touch of the same graceful imperiousness 
which had always been a charm in John Ruthven. 

“ You will not know my name,” I said; “ I am George 
Rayner; long years ago your father was a friend of mine.” 

All the music, and tenderness, and sadness in the world 
was breathed into those words: 

“ My father's friend!” 

“ And I will be your friend, too, if you will allow me,” 
1 said, quickly, “ for you want one, it seems to me. Now 
tell me, Miss Ruthven, what brought you out here under 
the holly berries to-night?” 

“I could bear my troubles no longer,” she answered; 
“ not another moment. Are you a very religious man?” 
she asked suddenly; but she did not wait for an answer. 
“ If you are,” she said, “you will be shocked at me. I 
did not mean to be wicked, but 1 was so unhappy. I came 
out to see if I had courage to drown myself.” 

“ Not really!” 1 said, with a shudder. 

“ Yes, really,” she answered, with a faint smile. “ You 
do not think that I should play at it, do you? 1 went to 
the mere, but it is frozen inches thick; it is a splendid 
block of ice. I found I had the courage, but not the 
means. Now I am glad I did not do it, since the world 
holds a friend for me. You have saved my life,” she said, 
“ because you have given me hope. I should have been 
dead in an hour but for you.” 

“ Thank Heaven I came!” was my answer. “I can 


142 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


assure you life holds some wonderful things for you yet. 
Miss Ruthven. Now will you tell me why you, so young 
and beautiful, are tired of life?” 

“ Am I beautiful?” she asked, suddenly. 

“ You are, indeed,” was my answer. 

“ Are you going to stay at the Manor House?” she 
asked. 

“ Yes; for some days at least,” I replied. 

She drew her slender, tall figure to its full height. 

“ I will not tell tales,” she said. “ If you are going to 
stay there, you will very soon find out why I wish that I 
was dead, and you will agree with me that the fatherless, 
the friendless, and the penniless are better out of the world 
than in it.” 

I seized her hands in mine. 

“Does no one love you,” I cried; “you so young, so 
fair?” 

A passionate blush covered her face. 

“Yes,” she replied, “one man does, and it is to his 
peril — we will not speak of it. You are going to stay 
there, and you will hear of all my iniquities; you will hear 
that I am a pauper, yet proud; that 1 am dependent on 
charity, yet ungrateful; that I have been clothed and fed, 
and have repaid my benefactors by — ” the passionate tor- 
rent of words stopped suddenly. “ I am mad to talk to 
you like this,” she said. “ You will find it all out. You 
will not wonder in a few days why I wish that 1 was dead.” 

I longed to tell her that in a few days more she would 
be envied by all the land; that she would be one of the 
wealthiest heiresses in it; but prudence made me refrain 
yet awhile. Still, I might cheer and comfort her some 
little. 

“ Miss Ruthven,” I said, “ I have come down ostensibly 
to see the squire, but really to see you.” 

“ To see me!” she cried. “ I should not have thought 
that any one in this world wanted to see me. ” 

“ I may tell you still more,” 1 said; “ I have some good 
news for you.” 

“ Good news? It is impossible. There can not be any 
for me; you must be mistaken.” 

“I am not. I have very good news for you, which you 
shall hear in a few days' time; but it will be better for you 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIE&. 143 

not to say that you have seen me, or that we have spoken 
together. When we meet, let it be as strangers.” 

“I will do as you sav,” she answered. “You might 
stay many days at the Manor House without seeing me, 
especially now.” 

“ Why more especially now?” 1 asked; but she made 
no answer. 

“Now I must go,” I said; “but before I leave you, 
promise me that you will think of life instead of death.” 

“ Is it worth while?” she asked, ineffable pain shining 
in her beautiful eyes. 

“You will find it so, if you will have the patience to 
wait,” I answered; and then 1 left her — thinking of the 
lines: 

“ No need for envy in this life, 

No cause for quarreling and strife; 

The young and old, the rich and poor, 

Have each their trials to endure, 

And every lot its share of joy — 

Some gold as well as some alloy. 

“ Though some may have large share of wealth. 

And others only ruddy health, 

Perchance, if we the heart might read. 

We’d find the poor man rich indeed. 

And his rich brother very poor 
In every source of pleasure pure. 

“We can not see the hidden life, 

Or know what troubles may be rife. 

Or grief within the soul find place. 

Masked to the world by smiling face; 

And we need no one’s burdens bear 
Except our own allotted share.” 


CHAPTER III. 

Half an hour afterward 1 was in the midst of a very 
different scene. I met with the warmest welcome from 
my old friend the squire; he laughed at the change time 
had wrought in both of us. The squire had been a slen- 
der, handsome man twenty years ago; he was handsome 
still, but he had grown stout, and had lost the agility of 
youth. He was delighted to see me, and after 1 had been 
refreshed with every kind of Christmas cheer, he took me 
into the drawing-room, where all his guests were assem- 


144 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


bled. How often 1 thought of the beautiful, despairing 
face under the holly berries; but of it I spoke no word. 

I have read Washington Irving's sketch of “ Christinas 
in a Country House," I have read Christmas stories with- 
out number, but I have never seen anything like the 
Christmas kept up at Dene Manor House. 

As soon as the hall door opened a gust of warm, aro- 
matic air greeted one, and there seemed to be a confusion 
of light and evergreens. The whole house was so warm, 
and bright, and light, there must have been fires in every 
room. Talk of “ merry Christmas;" the very sight of the 
evergreens brought the tears to my eyes. 1 had never seen 
such laurel, such fir, such bunches of mistletoe. Of course 
it was my fancy, but it seemed to me that the grand old 
house fairly rocked with music and laughter. I could not 
look at the red berries of the holly; they brought back to 
me so forcibly the beautiful, despairing face of the girl 
who had left all the warmth, beauty, and merriment to go 
out to die. 

The house was a perfect bower of evergreens; laurel and 
fir were- twined everywhere, and bunches of mistletoe hung 
in the hall and over the grand staircases. The squire 
pointed to them laughingly. 

“ Boys and girls," he said. 

Then we entered the drawing-room — a magnificent 
room, lofty and large, with three large windows, and two 
immense fire-places, two huge chandeliers, some superb 
pictures, a great number of flowers, and, in profusion 
everywhere, the Christmas evergreens. 

The squire led me first to a tall, handsome lady, looking 
imperially proud, and seated in state on a couch of crim- 
son velvet— a lady whose proud eyes seemed to look over 
every one, and to see far beyond them. She looked over 
me. She did not know that 1, after a fashion, carried a 
quarter of a million of money with me. She was superbly 
dressed in black velvet, and wore a few diamonds. The 
squire introduced me to his wife, and Mrs. Beresford con- 
descended to inquire if I had had a pleasant journey. My 
thoughts flew back to the snow-storm and the face under 
the holly berries. She was graciously pleased to add that 
she hoped I should enjoy myself, and then I was dismissed. 
The squire took me to his daughters— two fashionably 
dressed young ladies, very much alike — and introduced me 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


145 


to them. Clarissa, the eldest, said a few words to me; 
Helena, the youngest, looked up, saw that 1 was a middle- 
aged man of no particular distinction, simply bowed, and 
did not waste a word_ upon me. Then the squire led me 
to his only son — and let me say at once that a finer, hand- 
somer, more gallant young fellow I never met; his face 
was like his mother’s, but while it had all her dark beauty, 
it lacked the pride. I was delighted with him; he wel- 
comed me so warmly, he talked to me, he did everything 
in his power to show respect to his father’s old friend. It 
was evident to me that Guy was the very pride of his 
father’s heart. He was a barrister practicing in London, 
and had already made for himself a name. Gayly as he 
talked, however, I saw that Guy Beresford was not quite 
happy, not quite at his ease. There was a shadow on his 
face, every now and then a gleam of pain in his eyes that 
betrayed a mind ill at ease. 

The squire introduced me to his other guests; then he 
seemed to look uneasily round the room. At last he said, 
“Clarissa,” and his eldest daughter came to him. 
“ Where is Viola?” he asked. 

Clarissa gave what I considered a very decided toss of 
the head. 

“ I do not know, papa,” was the abrupt reply. 

“ Why is she not here? Christmas Eve! We ought all 
to be happy together,” said the squire. 

“ I think,” said Clarissa, with a half glance at me, “ it 
would be difficult for any one to be very happy with 
Viola.” 

“ Why is she not here?” repeated the squire. 

“ I do not know. She went out in the sulks some time 
ago. I have not seen her since.” 

Then he crossed the room and went to his wife. 

“ Louisa,” he said, “ where is Viola, and why is she not 
here?” 

“ I do not know,” she replied. “ The girl is insupport- 
able since her father’s death.” 

The words went through my heart like a knife. 

“ But what is the matter to-night? Why is she not in 
the room?” 

“ It was not likely that 1 should permit her to join us 
after what has passed. I told her quite plainly that until 


146 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


she knew her place among us, she must keep ner own 
room. ” 

“ Surely not on Christmas Eve?” said the compassion- 
ate squire. 

“ On Christmas and every other eve,” said Mrs. Beres- 
ford, impatiently. “ That is enough, Dudley. Viola does 
not enter the drawing-room to-night.” 

“ It is too bad,” murmured the squire, as we went away 
from the couch. “ I wonder, old friend,” he said to me, 
“ who among us understands women?” And I could not 
tell him. 

By that time I had pretty accurately formed my notion 
of my old friend’s domestic affairs. His wife was a proud, 
handsome shrew, his daughters neither handsome nor par- 
ticularly amiable, his son one of the most noble and gal- 
lant of young men. I wondered what were his feelings 
over his cousin. 

“ Every man has a skeleton in his closet,” said the 
squire. “ If you stay here long enough, you will discover 
mine.” 

He seemed very uneasy, and 1 heard him ask several 
people if they had seen Viola; the answer was always, 
“No.” 

“ Excuse me a few minutes, Kayner,” said the squire; 
and I knew that he had gone in search of Viola. While 
he was absent, 1 looked round that spacious and beautiful 
room with admiration. What a happy’ Christmas party! 
There was music, conversation, round games, varied with 
cards and dancing. 

I thought of the beautiful face I had seen under the 
holly berries, and how it would have shone fairest of all. 

Then the squire returned, but there was with him no 
Viola. He came straight up to me — the young people had 
just begun dancing. 

“ George,” he said, “ come and talk to me for a few 
minutes.” 

I went to him. 1 could see that in the midst of all his 
magnificence and luxury he was not happy — not even on 
Christmas Eve. 

“ You have come over about poor John Buthven’s 
affairs?” he said. 

“ Yes,” 1 replied; “ but I will not discuss business on 
Christmas Eve.” 


UNDER THE HOLLY RERRlES. 


147 


“ No —no/’ he said, hurriedly, “ certainly not; I did 
not mean that; but of course it makes me very unhappy.” 

“ What makes you unhappy?” 1 asked. 

“ My wife imagines that he has died in debt, and that 
he thought 1 should do something to help him; but I do 
not see how it is possible.” 

“ Why should you think he has died in debt?” I asked. 

“ He wrote to us some months since,” said the squire, 
“ and we could not understand the drift of what he said. 
Perhaps I had better explain that John married soon after 
he reached India; whether his wife had any money or not, 
we never knew; he evidently married for love. She must 
have been a friendless. girl, too, for when he sent the child 
home, he wrote: 4 You are the only person to whom 1 can 
trust her; her mother has no friends living/ The mother, 
as I suppose you know, died when the child was born. 
Poor Yiola! How she lived 1 can not tell. She was seven 
years old when she reached us — a frail, delicate child. 
Captain Anderson and his wife brought her here, and here 
she has been ever since. John Kuthven made no special 
arrangements. He wrote, saying the doctors had told him 
if she remained in India she must die, and that, knowing 
1 was married, he had sent the child to me, commending 
her to the care of myself and my wife.” 

“ It was a hazardous thing to do,” I said. 

The squire frowned. 

“ 1 wish, with all my heart, he had never done it,” he 
sighed; ‘ 4 not but that 1 love Viola, but there has been so 
many quarrels over it. At first Mrs. Beresford refused 
point-blank to allow it. I might send the child back to 
India, or to boardiug-school, or to the work-house — she 
would have none of her. Before the question was finally 
settled where she was to go, a remittance came from India, 
large enough to induce Mrs. Beresford to keep her. John 
Buthven wrote, with the remittance, saying that he would 
send the same yearly; that he would defray all the expenses 
of the child’s education, and that he would give us some 
substantial proof of his gratitude. John was always care- 
less; at times two years or more would pass without his 
sending at all, then would come a hurried letter and a 
check— never the right amount— and always the same ex- 
cuse that he had no time to write, he was engrossed in 


148 UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 

business, but everything would be made straight when he 
returned to England. 

“ I wrote several letters to him, begging of him to be 
more attentive, telling him how his want of punctuality 
brought me into collision with Mrs. Beresford, who always 
seemed to think 1 had done wrong in having a cousin at 
all, much less a cousin who had burdened us with a child. 

“ For two years before John’s death we had no remit- 
tance — indeed, no letters — only one hurried line to say that 
he hoped to return to England soon, and then the old 
familiar phrase— we should find it all right. The next 
thing we heard was of his death, so that he has left the 
child on our hands. 1 do not care, but my wife does not 
like it.” 

“You do not think, then, that John Ruthven left any 
fortune?” I asked. 

The squire laughed. 

“ I do not,” he said. “ If he had had money, he would 
have sent plenty for his only child.” 

“ It may just be possible,” I said, “ that he was saving 
money to surpise you all with when he came back.” 

The squire shook his head sadly. 

“ I am sure not,” he replied. “ Mrs. Beresford thinks 
he has died in debt, and that we shall have to provide for 
Viola.” 

“ Would that be such a great hardship?” I asked. 

“Not to me,” he replied, eagerly — “not to me; but 
my wife would not like it; we should have no peace; in 
fact, we have no peace now. Guy has fallen in love with 
Viola. He told his mother and myself to-day that he 
would never marry unless he married her, and she is just 
as much in love with him. Guy returns to London on 
Tuesday, and Mrs. Beresford talks of sending Viola away.” 

I laughed in my sleeve, for I knew that long before 
Tuesday, proud Mrs. Beresford would be ready to pray of 
Viola Ruthven to stay with them. 

The music, the dancing, all the happy, innocent Christ- 
mas merriment came to an end; and as yet I had not been 
introduced by host or hostess to Viola Ruthven. 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


149 


CHAPTER IV. 

Christmas Day was just as beautiful as Ohristma Eve 
had been, the sun shining on the frozen snow and on the 
hoar-frost. Early in the morning the chiming of the Christ- 
mas bells came over the snow; early enough the sound of 
Christmas greetings and merriment sounded in the old 
Manor House. We were all to breakfast together, and 
walked to church, a distance of more than two miles; but 
nothing, the squire said, could be more delightful than a 
long walk over the frozen snow, for the young people. 
Mrs! Beresford, of course, would drive. The breakfast- 
table round which we all assembled groaned with good 
cheer; it gave me an excellent idea of what a country 
breakfast at Christmas- time was like. The whole of the 
family were present, and several visitors — the presence of 
the visitors was a decided relief to us all. The squire 
looked happy; he was one of those fortunate men who at 
Christmas-time resolutely “banish dull care;” he would 
be happy; he would laugh, jest, and tease, because it was, 
Christmas. Mrs. Beresford was inclined to be amiable un- 
til Viola entered, and the very sight of that beautiful face 
seemed to irritate her. Clarissa and Helena were inclined 
to be good-tempered, because it was Christmas Day, and 
bad-tempered because the frost had given to both an 
additional ruddy tinge; had, as Clarissa phrased it, spoiled 
their complexions for the day. Handsome, cheery Guy, 
whom I was beginning to love with all my heart, neither 
saw nor heard any one else after Viola entered the room. 
She came in just as we were taking our seats at the break- 
fast-table. If 1 had thought her beautiful last night under 
the holly-trees, when her face was white with misery and 
stained with tears, what did I think her now? 

Her face was fresh with the lovely bloom blown by the 
morning air; her hair seemed to have caught the glint of 
the winter’s sunshine; her eyes were like “ heart’s-ease 
wet with dew.” Looking at her, no one could have 
thought that only last night she had gone out to see if she 
had courage enough to die. Her tall, slender figure 
showed to perfection in a tight-fitting black dress. She 


150 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


was beautiful, graceful, and courteous as a young queen; 
but I knew by the faces of the women when she entered 
the room that they all disliked and were jealous of her. 

The beautiful, fresh-faced child! the frost and snow had 
not taken the lovely bloom from her— they had deepened 
it into rarest rose color; and when the squire brought her 
up to me, I was startled at her exceeding loveliness; in my 
own mind 1 compared the coloring of her face to the rich 
red berries and white snow; but then I am no poet. We 
met as strangers; the squire introduced Viola as the 
daughter of my old friend John Ruthven, and again the 
beautiful eyes met mine, as she murmured gently, “ My 
father’s friend!” Then Guy, who had never taken his 
eyes from her face, and who was evidently jealous of me, 
came up to us. No need to tell any one there had been 
love passages between these two beautiful young people — 
no need; her face told the story, and he looked as though 
he worshiped her. 

“ I will find you a chair, Viola,” he said; and just as he 
was on the point of seating himself next to her, Mrs. Beres- 
ford said, in a loud voice: 

“ Guy, come and sit next to me; I want to talk to you.” 

Viola flushed crimson. Guy’s firm lips grew pale, but 
he did not go. I liked him for that. 

“Iam going to attend to Viola, mother,” he said; “ we 
will talk afterward.” 

“ Viola knows mamma likes you near her when you are 
at home,” said Clarissa. 

“ Viola can always take good care of herself,” said 
Helena, and then a gloom fell over the breakfast-table. 

“Come,” said the squire, “ this will not do. It is 
Christmas morning. Be gone, dull care! let us be happy. 
As the waits sung last evening, 4 may nothing you dis- 
may!’ ” 

Guy profited by the advice, but Viola did not seem to 
recover herself. 

The next struggle was that Mrs. Beresford resolved Guy 
and Viola should not go to church together; the lovely, 
frosty morning must not be given to idle love-making. At 
first she said Viola should go in the carriage with her; then 
Guy declared he should drive, too; finally, Mrs. Beresford 
called me to her side. 

“ Mr. Rayner,” she said, “ I shall be glad if you would 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


151 


take charge of Miss Ruthven. I do not wish my son to 
take her to church, and I shall trust her to you.” 

“ But, my dear madame — ” I began, but she interrupt- 
ed me impatiently. 

“ You must do it,” she said; “ I will not have them to- 
gether.” 

1 thought to myself that if she had known I had a quar- 
ter of a million of money as that young lady's fortune, 
how differently she would have acted. 

I shall never forget the beauty of that walk through the 
woods. The ground was white and hard; the hoar-frost 
lay over it like a silver veil; the sun shone until the white 
snow glistened; and the beautiful tracery of the great bare 
branches stood out in bold relief under the dark-blue sky. 

Viola blushed as we passed the holly-trees; she turned 
her frank, fair face toward me. 

“lam ashamed of myself,” she said. “ Whatever you 
came here for originally, you certainly saved my life. I 
was mad last night with shame, vexation, and despair.” 

“ Tell me all about it,” I said. “ Kemember, I am 
your father's friend, and yours; remember, too, that I 
have come purposely to bring you good news.” 

“ I wonder,” she said, “ what that good. news is?” 

“ A quarter of million of money,” 1 thought to myself, 
and my heart beat as I pictured her surprise when she 
knew it. “ Tell me,” I said, “ what was the matter last 
evening? 1 can see that you are not very happy here, 
but there must have bepn something out of the common to 
have sent you out in that state of despair.” 

The beautiful face flushed, and the sweet, proud eyes 
drooped before mine. 

“It was out of the common,” she said, with a smile and 
a sigh. 

“ Tell me what it was,” 1 said. 

She laughed, and the sweet, girlish laughter gladdened 
my heart. 

* “1 can not tell you all at once,” she said. “ 1 — I must 
lead up to it.” 

“ Begin at the beginning, Viola,” I said, “ and tell me 
all that you remember about yourself. * ' 

The rest of that gay Christmas party were ahead of us. 
We could hear the squire's genial laughter; he always 


152 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


seemed to enjoy himself so much better out of his wife’s 
sight. 1 could see, also, to my great amusement, the 
jealous glances that Guy threw back at me. 

“ I can tell you nothing about India,” she began; “ it 
is all a confused dream to me of glaring hot sunshine and 
black faces. 1 lived with a widow lady, an officer’s widow, 
and she took care of me until I was six years old; then I 
had a severe illness and was sent to England. 1 can not 
remember,” she said, “ whether we were poor people or 
rich; but what I do remember is that I was the most lonely 
child in the wide world. No one seemed to love or care 
for me. My father — I can not remember his face, although 
I loved him dearly — would come to see me at times, always 
in a great hurry, and if 1 prayed him to remain, he would 
answer, 4 1 am too busy, my little girl; I am working so 
hard; but it is all for you— all for you, Viola.’ I never 
saw him for more than an hour at a time, and that not 
often. Then comes a dream of a long, tedious illness, 
during which it seemed to me that 1 was being slowly 
burned to death; then comes a dream of cool sea-breezes, 
of nothing but water during long nights and days; then I 
was here at Dene Manor House. 

^ “ Not at all a sensational story, is it?” she asked, with 
a piteous drooping of the sweet lips, and I thought to my- 
self that the sensation was all to come. 

“ I was quite a child when lcame here,” she continued, 
“ but I saw that I was not welcome, and not wanted. 
Can you imagine what that means? I have been here 
eleven years, and have felt myself unwelcome the whole 
time. 1 make no complaint. Some people would have 
been ev6n less kind. I ought never to have been sent 
here; they did not want me. I have heard Mrs. Beresford 
say, hundreds of times, that she was unwilling to do so 
from the first, and at the first. Could any words tell the 
unhappiness of a child living where she was neither wanted 
nor welcome? 

“ The squire has been fond of me and kind to me; he 
has never said a harsh word or done one unkind deed; he 
has always, so far as he could, shielded and' sheltered me, 
when he could do so without attracting observation; he 
has permitted me indulgences, gratified my desires; if he 
could, he would have bought for me all kinds of pretty 
things, as he did for his own daughters, but Mrs. Beres- 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


153 


ford would not permit it, and, for the sake of peace, he 
was compelled to refrain. 

“ From the hour 1 entered the house until now,” she 
continued, “ Mrs. Beresford has hated me. She has 
grudged me the food I have eaten and the clothes I wear. 
I do not complain; some people would have been worse, 
but it has been cruelly hard upon me. I can only im- 
agine,” she continued, “ that my dear father, in that far* 
ofi land, had idealized the squire, and thought that he had 
married a woman who was almost an angel. Perhaps most 
women would resent the part of having a child thrust into 
their household, whether they wished it or not, but 1 think 
the hearts of most women would have softened to a little, 
desolate, motherless child. I need not dwell on the details 
of these years. I say all, 1 tell you everything in those few 
words: I have never been wanted, and I have never been 
welcome. ” 

“ But the girls,” 1 said;‘“ surely they have been kind 
to you?” 

She seemed to shrink from the subject. I might have 
remembered that two plain girls were not always tolerant 
of a beautiful one. 

“ Still,” she said, half hesitating, “ in the midst of my 
misery I have had a gleam of light.” 

“Now,” 1 thought to myself, “ we are leading up to 
it;” for 1 guessed pretty well what was coming. 

“ Guy has always loved me,” she said, raising her head 
proudly. “ Whenever he was at home, he took my part 
in everything. He was the only comfort and refuge and 
hope 1 had. He has been everything in the world to me; 
but it is very unfortunate for him, as it has made his 
parents so angry with him that Mrs. Beresford said last 
night she hoped he would never come home again.” 

“ What happened last night?” I repeated. 

“ I will tell you, Mr. Bayner. When Guy came home 
this Christmas, he saw that I was — well, to say the least 
of it— not happy, and he told me how dearly he loved me, 
and how much he wants to make me his wife. Now, Mrs. 
Beresford wants him to marry Kate Hildyard — she has a 
fortune of ten thousand pounds — but Guy will not. He 
declares that he will marry no one but me. He says that 
he shall go away and work hard until he has a home for 
me, and then, in spite of the whole world, he shall come 


354 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


for me and marry me. But 1,” she said, rising her grace- 
ful head proudly, “ I shall never allow that!” 

“ What shall you do?” I asked. 

“ 1 shall wait until the Christmas holidays are over— I 
do not want to spoil them — then I shall go away. Why, 
you would help me,” she continued, her eyes brightening 
— “ help me to get a situation. 1 will work for myself, 
and I will not ruin Guy’s life by letting him marry me. 
I have no fortune, no friends, and he shall not ruin him- 
self for me. ” 

Yet she who spoke was worth a quarter of a million of 
money! 


CHAPTER V. 

“ Do you not think 1 am right?” she asked. 

“Yes, quite right,” 1 answered. “ But what about 
last night?” returning again to the charge. 

“ It was yesterday,” she continued, “ that Guy told the 
squire and Mrs. Beresford that he loved me and wanted 
me for his wife. They were very angry, and there was a 
great disturbance. Mrs. Beresford was most angry with 
me. She said I had inveigled him, lured him, tricked 
him; she said such cruel things to me that they seemed to 
blister my face with shame; 1 shall never forget them un- 
til I die; but the worst of it was — ” 

She stopped shyly. 

“ Tell me the worst of it,” I said, with an air of resolu- 
tion. 

She went on: 

“ I — I was going across the hall,” she said; “ it was 
just before dinner, and I had a dim suspicion that Guy 
would be lingering about the staircase or in the hall waiting 
for me, and surely there he was ” — a rush of color crim- 
soned her face, and her eyes filled with tears. “ I love 
him so,” she said, apologetically, “ I can hardly speak of 
him without tears. He was waiting for me. The hall was 
full of shadows, and we did not see any one else. 4 My 
darling,’ he cried, 4 1 have been here for an hour waiting 
for you. We shall have just one quarter of an hour before 
dinner.’ He came to me and clasped my hands. 4 If I 
could only tell you,’ he said, 4 how grieved I am; but I 
shall make it all up to you when you are my wife. You 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


155 


will be the happiest, the most beautiful, the most beloved 
wife in the wide world/ 

“ There was a mistletoe bough hanging close to us; he 
drew me under it and kissed me, not once — I am bound to 
tell the truth — but many times; kissed me as though he 
would never part with me in this world again. There was 
a sound; we both looked up; there stood Mrs. Beresford, 
her face white with rage, her eyes seeming to flame anger. 

4i 4 Disgraceful V she hissed.* ‘ To you, Guy, 1 speak no 
word; you, Viola, go to your own room, and remain there 
until I come/ 

44 1 went. When she came —ah! no, I can not tell even 
you, my father’s friend, what she said, only that it drove 
me mad. 1 said I would go out and drown myself; she 
answered me that it was the best thing 1 could do; that I 
was a useless burden to them, and should be the ruin of 

their only son. . 

“ 1 did not wait to think whether it was wrong or right, 
for I was mad with my own misery, and with the shameful 
words that she had used to me. i rushed out of the house 
to go down to the piere. I was so mad, so carried out of 
my senses by anger, that if the water had been flowing and 
free, I should have flung myself into its depths; but 
Heaven, in its mercy, had locked it up in one freezing 
mass, and then 1 saw you, and you said you had good news 
for me; then I felt better.” _ ,, 

iC It was a very wicked thing of you to do or think of, 

“ 1 know it,” she answered, humbly, 44 but I was driven 
mad* her angry, shameless, cruel words had driven me 
mad.' I shall never do it again. I shall go away and fade 
quite out of their lives. I shall never let even Guy know 
where 1 am— Guy whom I love so much.” 

“You do love him, then?” I said. 

“ Yes; 1 love him with all my heart, and I shall never 
love any one else as long as I live; but 1 shall never drag 
him down to ruin; 1 love him too much for that. lou 
will help me, because you were my father s friend? I am 
sure that I can earn money; I can sing and paint. 

“ I will help you,” I interrupted; and then some of the 
gay party turned back to us. Guy’s handsome face was 
pale with jealousy. He came up to me on the road home. 
* “ jyj r . Rayner,” he said, with all the candor natural to 


156 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


youth, “ I do not know whether you are my friend or my 
foe.” 

1 laughed outright at this. 

“ Your friend, 3 7 ou may be quite sure,” I answered, and 
his face cleared. 

“ I heard my mother tell you to take care of Viola, so 
that I should not talk to her. Now, Viola,” he continued, 
“ is mine, my own. No one shall take her from me, no 
one shall part us. I mean* to love her until I die, and 
after death if I can. I tell you honestly that 1 love Viola, 
and 1 want to make her my wife. I will make her my 
wife in spite of all opposition. She has had a cruel life, 
and I intend to make it all up to her; I mean to make her 
as happy in the future as she has been miserable in the 
past, and that is saying a great deal. “ My mother says 
if I marry her I shall never have the Manor House or one 
shilling of my father's money. 1 will do without both. 1 
am young and strong — 1 can work and wait for her; I 
would work all my life for her.” 

My heart went out to the brave, manly young fellow who 
had so true a heart. 

44 There was a great unpleasantness last night,” he said, 
“ because my mother saw me kiss Viola. Who could help 
it?” cried Guy. “ Christmas Eve, your own beautiful 
sweetheart close to you, and a mistletoe bough over your 
head! It was not in human nature to help it, certainly 
not in mine. 1 wished there had been fifty mistletoe 
boughs — 1 would have kissed her under each one. Do 
you blame me?” 

“ No, certainly not. I should have done the same 
thing,” I answered. 

“ I thought I had better tell you just how the land lay. 
You are a friend of the family, the squire says, and it 
would be quite natural if you took the part of the heads of 
the family against us.” 

“ I shall do no such thing,” I replied. And by that 
time we had reached home. 

There was a grand Christmas dinner, to which a large 
party of guests had been invited, and a most enjoyable 
party it was. My chief occupation, 1 must confess, was 
watching those beautiful young lovers, and certainly there 
could not have been a prettier sight in the world. 

“ I shall see that Viola spends to-night with us,” said 


UNDER THE nOLLY BERRIES. 157 

Guy to me. “ Last night, although it was Christmas Eve, 
my mother would not allow her to leave her room, but 
there shall be nothing of that kind to-night.” 

From those words 1 saw that he was ignorant of the 
episode of the holly-trees. He little knew how nearly he 
had lost her. 1 had not been much with lovers before. I 
must say these two delighted me; the helpless, hopeless 
fashion in which they seemed to be attracted to each other, 
the complete abandonment with which they ignored all the 
rest of the world, the pretty little artifices by which they 
managed for a time to get near each other. It was all so 
new and so beautiful to me. Despite the gloom that hung 
over the famil} T , the anger against Viola that she had won 
the heart of their son, their anger against Guy for loving 
her, it was a happy Christmas party. It is not often that 
visitors and friends know or see or understand any little 
domestic drama played before their eyes. Few, if any, of 
these guests who enjoyed themselves so heartily knew that 
a silent struggle was going on. I was the only one present 
who knew anything of it. That Christmas night, while 
music, and dancing, and merriment were at their best, 
Mrs. Beresford sent for me. 

Up to this time she had not taken much interest in me. 
As a member of a very well-known firm, 1 was treated 
with a certain amount of respect and consideration; but 
as a solicitor who had come down to talk over John Ruth- 
ven's business matters, I was decidedly an enemy; but to- 
night she was pleased to be most gracious. She made 
room for me by her side on the velvet couch; she spoke in 
kindly tones; she smiled most amiably. 

“ Dear Mr. Rayner,” she began, “ in your legal capacity 
you must come across many strange things.” 

1 told her that was the case. 

“ No phase of human nature is strange to you,” she 
continued. 

1 replied, “ No; I thought not.” 

“ You will have met young men before now who have 
been their own ruin by a foolish marriage,” she said. 

I answered, “ Yes; but that I had met quite as many 
who were ruined because they did not marry at all.” 

“ It is strange,” she said, “ that you should just come 
to visit us when are at the very climax of a family — 1 may 
sa y — quarrel. You have heard, of course, of the dreadful 


158 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


misfortune over Guy. Dear Mr. Rayner, I wish you would 
talk to him, reason with him, show him the utter, abject 
folly of marrying for love. He has set his heart on marry- 
ing Viola. She is, I admit, a very pretty girl; but she has 
nothing in the world to recommend her beyond a pretty 
face — ” 

“ I thought she was very accomplished,” I interrupted. 

“ Oh, yes!” was the impatient answer; “ but that does 
not matter. She has no fortune, not one penny; no 
friends, no influence, no connections; instead of advancing 
his interests in life, she will ruin him. I have made up 
my mind to a certain course of action, and I shall pursue 
it just as obstinately and relentlessly as he will. If he 
marries Viola against my wishes, prayers, and commands, 
the squire shall not leave Dene to him. It shall be sold, 
and the money divided between his sisters. I do not like 
the girl, and she shall never be mistress of Dene. I want 
you to show my son more plainly even than I can do how 
completely he is ruining himself. If he marries Viola he 
will have nothing to live upon but what he earns, and he 
will break with his family forever.” 

“ Do you not think that a hard decision?” I asked, and 
Mrs. Beresford looked at me with a frown. 

“ I do not,” she said. “ My son has before him as fine 
a chance as any young man in the country, if he chooses 
to avail himself of it. He would be master of Dene; he 
would get into Parliament; he is wonderfully clever, and 
if he had once had an entree into public life, he would 
soon make a name; but to do this he must marry some 
one with money and influential connections.” 

“ I see; but if he loves the young lady and she loves 
him, do you not think it would be wiser to allow them to 
marry?” 

“ No, 1 do not. You know as well as I do that love is 
all nonsense. Young people can not live on it; young 
men can not make their way upon it; it is all weak, senti- 
mental nonsense. You know it, Mr. Rayner. Sensible 
people leave such things quite out of their calculations. 
You, being an old friend of his father, and a man of the 
world, would naturally have great influence with him. I 
see that he is disposed to like you and to trust you. Will 
you undertake to talk to him for me, Mr. Rayner?” 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


159 


“ Would not the squire be the best person?” 1 suggest- 
ed; and again a frown passed over the handsome face. 

“ The squire is weak-minded over the matter; he is 
fond of the girl, and can not make up his mind to be 
severe or firm enough. So far as I see, you are the best 
person, and the only person, to help us, if you will.” 

1 repeated that I would do anything for the good of the 
family. Then I asked: 

“ Have you any other objection to Yiola besides her 
want of fortune?” 

“ I am not likely to like her,” she said, with a flash in 
her eyes. “ She has been a great burden upon us; we 
have not agreed very well. She is too. independent, too 
high-spirited. I do not like her, but 1 could tolerate her 
if she .had a large fortune; but she has not.” 

Here she looked at me wonderingly. 

“ You came to talk over some business affairs of John 
Ruthven with the squire, did you not?” 

“Yes,”l answered; “but the squire said we were to 
have two days' respite from business. I shall tell mine 
to-morrow.” 

“ I hope you will not draw my husband into anything 
imprudent,” said Mrs. Beresford. “ If John Ruthven has 
left debts or unsettled affairs, it is no business of ours.” 

“ Decidedly not,” I answered; and there our conversa- 
tion ended. 


CHAPTER VI. 

The day after Christmas Day — and we were to discuss 
business. The very name was irksome, for the sun was 
shining, the holly berries glowing, the robin-redbreast 
hopping about, and the young people in the house were in 
a perfect ferment of agitation over the skating on the 
mere. • 

The ice was so many inches .thick, Clarissa declared, 
that it was firm enough to hold a regiment of soldiers. 

Nothing was thought of or spoken of but skating; fresh, 
fair faces glowing with excitement met one at every turn; 
the squire was just as bad as the rest. 

“Never mind business for a few hours,” he said; 
“ business can be done at all times and in all seasons, but 


1(30 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


such a frost as this, such ice as this, may not be seen again 
for years. Wait, at least, till after luncheon.” 

There was nothing for it but to do as he wished. 

As I was crossing the hall I saw Viola; she looked pale 
and anxious. 

“Are you not going out with us to-day?” 1 asked. 

“ No,” she replied; “ I have no heart; I could not even 
keep up appearances. I want to be alone — where I can 
weep out all my sorrow. Guy leaves to-morrow, and 1 in- 
tend to go directly after himf I shall never see him again, 
and my heart is heavy. 1 shall not tell him,” she con- 
tinued; “it would make him so unhappy; but when I 
have left Dene, I shall write to him and tell him that he 
must forget me. I could not go out this morning; the 
darkness that hangs over me is the darkness of death. ” 

“ Now, Rayner,” cried the squire, “ we are all waiting 
for you.” 

Had it not been for that interruption, 1 must have told 
her the truth then and there, for the sight of that sorrow- 
ful young face was most distressing to me. 1 did not en- 
joy the skating; my heart was with Viola. 1 knew that 
when all the facts of the case were known she would be 
welcomed most joyfully by the whole family, but 1 was 
sorry for her. I could not bear to think that it was money 
which would make all the difference. But, then, Guy 
loved her truly, and one true love in a life-time is more 
than falls to the lot of most people. Guy loved her; he 
wanted no money, no influential connections, he wanted 
nothing but herself, her own bright, beautiful, winsome 
self; he wanted to marry her and work for her, and cared 
for nothing else. But with the others, even with the 
squire himself, it was a different matter — they cared little 
for Viola, and very much about money. 

Guy was not among the skaters, and it struck me very 
forcibly that, although h§ had started out with us, he 
must have returned, and the chances were that, knowing 
we were all out of the way, he would contrive a tete-a-tete 
with Viola. It would be a miserable one, but the misery 
would end soon and happiness take its place. The squire 
and 1 walked home together; the young people preferred 
to spend another hour on the ice. 

“ Business this afternoon,” said the squire. “ We will 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


161 


go to the library after luncheon. I hope the details are 
not too dreadful.” 

“You will survive them,” 1 answered, with a careless 
laugh. 

“ 1 know John was sanguine, and I should think not 
overprudent; but I can not imagine what 1 can have to do 
with his affairs, unless it be to provide for his daughter.” 

“We shall see,” I said. If they knew! 

’ As we passed the drawing-room door, we heard the sound 
of loud voices and weeping. 

“ What is the matter?” said the squire. 

He opened the door quickly and went in. I followed 
him. Some instinct told me there was a crisis. 

“ Come in,” said Mrs. Beresford, “ come in, and you, 
Mr. Rayner. 1 am glad you are both here.” 

“ What is the matter?” asked the squire. 

It was a dramatic scene. Mrs. Beresford — her proud, 
handsome face flushed with anger — stood like a judge; 
Guy, with his arms thrown round Viola, as though he 
would protect and shield her from everything that could 
hurt her. I shall never forget the loving pride and ten- 
derness of his face as Viola’s beautiful head drooped on his 
breast; it was well worth while, I thought, to be just a 
little unhappy to elicit the sure proof of such true love. 

“lam glad you have both come,” said Mrs. Beresford. 
“ 1 am determined to put a stop to this state of things. It 
is disgraceful. Guy,” continued the angry lady, “ take 
your arms away from that girl; I insist upon it. It is un- 
seemly. ” 

“ My dear mother,” said Guy, calmly, “ I almost wish 
I had another arm to throw round Viola. How hard and 
cruel you are to her, just because she has no money. 
Why, she is a fortune in herself that a king might envy. 
Do not cry, Viola,” he added, bending his face over the 
fair head that drooped on his beast. “ Do not cry, my 
darling. If 1 lose Dene and everything else in the world, 
I do not care if only I win you.” 

“ But I care,” said John Ruthven’s daughter, proudly. 
“ 1 will not let you ruin yourself for my sake.” 

“ There can be no ruin with you, Viola,” said Guy, and 
to emphasize his words he kissed her. 

Mrs. Beresford threw up her hands and eyes in horror. 

“ If you repeat that, Guy, 1 shall leave the room,” she 


1G2 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


said; and Guy looked very much inclined to repeat it, but 
he refrained. 

“ Will any one be good enough to tell me what is the 
matter?” asked the squire. 

“ 1 will tell you,” replied his angry lady. “You know 
that I have forbidden any kind of love nonsense between 
my son and Viola Ruthven. 1 have said distinctly that I 
will not have it. I have forbidden them to speak to each 
other, and in my own house I will be obeyed — ” 

“ In reason, mother,” interrupted Guy. 

“ And out of reason,” said the angry lady. “ I have 
forbidden it. I consider that Viola Ruthven is basely un- 
grateful. We have fed her, and clothed her, and educated 
her, and she shows her gratitude by luring our only son to 
his ruin.” 

“ But what is the matter now?” cried the squire. 
“ What is there afresh? Why is Viola in tears? 1 do not 
understand.” 

“ You will if you listen,” said Mrs. Beresford. “ I for- 
bid anything of the kind, yet what happens? This morn- 
ing I sent Viola to her room with some work that I wanted 
done, and Guy went out skating. 1 thought them both 
safe, and an hour afterward I ssiw them, positively saw 
them, in the holly walk. Such deceit and duplicity aie 
unendurable. I will not have it,” continued the irate 
lady. “ Guy shall never marry Viola, never while I live. 
I insist that Viola shall be locked in her room until Guy 
has left the house. Now you see what is the matter, Dud- 
ley: deceit, clandestine meetings under -our very roof.” 

“ There was nothing clandestine about it, mother,” 
cried Guy. “Viola is going to be my wife. Surely I 
have the right to see her and speak to her when I choose.” 

“ You have no such right,” replied the angry woman. 
“ Now, Viola Ruthven, come away from my son. In my 
young days girls were more modest and retiring. Leave 
my son and go up to your own room, and there remain 
until he has left the house.” 

“ My dear mother — ” began Guy; but 1 interrupted 
him. 

“ May I speak a few words?” I said, drawing nearer to 
the little group. “ Perhaps what I have to say may 
change the views of some people.” 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES, 163 

They all looked at me curiously. What a lesson in hu- 
man nature it was for me! 

“ The squire wished me not to speak on business until 
the Christmas holiday was over/’ I said. “ 1 have obeyed 
him, but 1 think the time has come now when I must 
speak. You all know that 1 came here purposely to talk 
over John Ruthven's business affairs with the squire, but 
no one among you has thought much what those business 
affairs were.” 

I saw the wonder in^ their faces, but Mrs. Beresford shot 
at me but one word: 

“ Debts!” she said. 

“No,” 1 answered; “there is no question of debt. 
You have all taken it for granted that John Ruthven died 
poor.” 

1 saw Viola raise her head from her lover's breast and 
look at me with wet, wistful eyes. 

“ It is a mistake,” I said, solemnly, “ a great mistake. 
John Ruthven always said that he should make money, 
and he has done so. He has left behind him an enormous 
fortune. ” 

I saw Viola clinging to her lover; the squire turned pale 
and whistled, a long shrill whistle for which at any other 
time his wife would have annihilated him; it passed now 
unheeded. Mrs. Beresford sunk into the nearest chair. 
Guy, under cover of all his emotion, kissed Viola again. 

“ Our firm,” I continued, “ have received all the papers 
— the will and all the instructions. To you. Squire Beres- 
ford, in memory of your old friendship and in loving grati- 
tude to you for your care and kindness to his only child, 
he has left — ten thousand pounds.” 

If a thunder-bolt had fallen among them they could not 
have been more astounded. 

“ Ten thousand pounds!” gasped the squire. “ My 
poor old friend!” 

“How noble!” said Mrs. Beresford. “Why did you 
not tell us before?” 

“ 1 have not finished, madame. The time for telling 
the news was left entirely to my own judgment. John 
Ruthven no doubt hoped to come home and enjoy many 
happy years with his daughter. Heaven willed it other- 
wise; but he has made her one of the richest heiresses in 


164 


UNDER THE HOLLY BERRIES. 


England — he has left her a fortune of a quarter of a million 
of money.” 

,It was worth much to see the consternation on every 
face; even Viola herself grew deathly pale, and for a few 
minutes there was perfect silence. 

Then— oh, noble human nature!— Mrs. Beresford turned 
to Viola. She spoke in the blandest of voices, the sweetest 
of smiles. 

“ A quarter of a million of money?” she said. “ What 
a fortune! Of course, my dear, thijs makes a difference.” 

Of course it did. 1 shall never forget the scene that 
followed; it brought tears to my eyes. The delight and 
happiness of the two lovers knew no bounds. For many" 
days afterward Mrs. Beresford never ceased repeating to 
herself, “ A quarter of a million of money!” There was 
no reason for concealing the truth; it soon spread over the 
whole household, and what a scene of congratulation and 
amazement there was! I shall never forget it. Of course 
it ended happily. Viola turned out to be one of the most 
generous of women; she would give Clarissa and Helena a 
handsome dowry, but there was one thing she would not 
do— she would not be mistress of Dene. She forgave Mrs. 
Beresford, but she never really liked her. The squire she 
had always loved. 

Mrs. Beresford veered round almost too suddenly; she 
declared Viola to be the most beautiful, the most charm- 
ing, the most accomplished of girls. It is wonderful what 
a difference a quarter of a million of money makes. 

Of course they were married. Guy gave up the bar and 
went into Parliament. They purchased a beautiful estate 
in Devonshire called Luton House. They are Happy, pros- 
perous, and beloved, but I never see the moon shining on 
the snow or hear the Christmas bells chime but I think of 
the beautiful, despairing face 1 saw so many years ago 
“ Under the Holly Berries. , 


THE END. 


CORALIE. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ Eighty pounds a year!” My reader can imagine that 
this was no great fortune. I had little or nothing to spend 
in kid gloves or cigars; indeed, to speak plain, prosaic 
English, 1 went without a good dinner far oftener than I 
had one. Yet, withal, I was passing rich on eighty pounds 
a year. 

My father. Captain Trevelyan, a brave and deserving 
officer, died when I was a child. My mother, a meek, 
fragile invalid, never recovered his loss, but died some 
years after him, leaving me alone in the world with my 
sister Clare. 

When I was young I had great dreams of fame and 
glory. I was to be a brave soldier like my dear dead 
father, or a great writer, or a statesman. I dreamed of 
everything except falling into the common grooves of life 
— which was my fate in after years. My mother, believing 
in my dreams, contrived to send me to college — we both 
considered a college education the only preliminary to a 
golden future. How she managed it out of her slender 
means, I can not tell, but she kept me at college for three 
years. I was just trying to decide what profession to 
adopt, when a letter came summoning me suddenly home. 

My mother was ill, not expected to live. 

When I did reach home I found another source of 
trouble. My sister Clare, whom 1 had left a beautiful, 
blooming girl of eighteen, had been ill for the last year. 
The doctors declared it to be a spinal complaint, from 
which she was not likely to recover, although she might 
live for years. 

She was unable to move, but lay always on a couch or 
- sofa. The first glimpse of her altered face, so sweet, so 

( 165 ) 


106 


CORALIE. 


sad and colorless, made my heart ache. All the youth 
and bloom had died out of it. 

My mother did not live many days; at her death her in- 
„ come ceased, and 1 found myself at twenty obliged to be- 
gin the world as best 1 could, the sole protector of my in- 
valid sister. The first step was to sell our little home, a 
pretty cottage at Hampstead, then to take lodgings nearer 
the city; after that 1 set vigorously to work to look for a 
situation. 

Ah, me, that weary task! I wonder if any of my readers 
ever went quite alone, friendless, almost helpless into the 
great modern Babylon, to look for a situation; if so, they 
will know how to pity me. I spent many pounds in ad- 
vertisements; I haunted the agency offices; I answered 
every advertisement 1 read — it seemed all in vain. 

My father’s regiment was then in India, but I wrote to 
several of the officers who had known and valued him. 
Then, as a last resource, 1 looked up the few friends my 
mother had. 

If there is one thing more dreary than looking for a sit- 
uation it is what is commonly called “ hunting up one’s 
friends. '’ I found many, but some were old and indiffer- 
ent, others too much engrossed in their own affairs to have 
any time to devote to mine. Some shook hands, wished 
me well, promised to do all they could to help me, and be- 
fore I had passed from their sight forgot my existence. 

I gave up my friends. Their help in the hour of need 
is a beautiful theory, but very seldom put into practice. 

Just as l was growing dull and dispirited, a friend upon 
whom I had not called, and whose aid I had not solicited, 
wrote to me, and offered me a situation as clerk in his 
office, with a salary of eighty pounds per annum, to be 
afterward increased. God send to every wearied heart the 
comfort this news brought to mine. 1 ran to Clare with 
the letter in my hands. 

“ Eighty pounds a year, darling!” I cried; “ there is a 
fortune!” 

We had neither of us ever had much to do with money; 
we were quite ignorant of its value, how far it would go, 
what it would purchase, etc. It seemed an inexhaustible 
sum. We had cheap, comfortable apartments in Holla way 
—a room for my sister, and two smaller rooms for myself. 
When I think of her patience, her resignation, her unvary- 


CORA LIE. 16 ? 

ing sweetness, her constant cheerfulness, my heart does 
homage to the virtue and goodness of women. 

One fine morning in September I went for the first time 
to work. The office of Lawson Brothers was in Lincoln’s 
Inn. The elder brother seldom if ever appeared; the 
younger was always there. He gave me a very kindly 
welcome, said he hoped I should not find my work tire- 
some, showed me what I had to do, and, altogether, set 
me at my ease. 

I sighed many times that morning to find of how little 
use was my college education to me now, and I sighed to 
think how all my dreams, all my hopes and aspirations, 
had ended behind a clerk’s desk, with eighty pounds per 
annum in lieu of the fortune of which I had dreamed. 

After a few days I became used to the novelty, and did 
my best to discharge my duties well. 

Hundreds of young men in London lead lives similar to 
mine, with very little variety; the only way in which 1 
differed from them was that 1 had my sister Clare to pro- 
vide for. Alas! how soon l found out what a small sum 
eighty pounds a year was! When we had paid the rent of 
our three rooms, set aside a small sum for clothes and a 
small sum for food, there was nothing left. Clare, whose 
appetite was dainty and delicate, suffered greatly. I could 
not manage to provide even a bunch of grapes for her; the 
trifling coppers I spent in flowers, that cheered her as 
nothing else ever did, were sorely missed. 

How 1 longed sometimes to take home a ripe peach, a 
bottle of wine, an amusing book! But every penny was 
rigorously needed; there was not one to spare. How I 
pitied her for the long hours she spent alone in those soli- 
tary lodgings! A bright inspiration came to me one day: 
1 thought how glad I should be if 1 could get some work 
to do at night, if it were but possible to earn a few shil- 
lings. I advertised again, and after some time succeeded 
in getting copying to do, for which 1 was not overwell paid. 

1 earned a pound— positively a whole golden sovereign— 
and when it lay in my hand my joy was too great for 
words. What should I do with one sovereign, and such a 
multiplicity of wants? Do not laugh at me, reader, when 
1 tell you what I did do, after long and anxious debate 
with myself. I paid a quarter’s subscription at Mudie’s, 
so that my poor sister should have something to while 


168 


CORALIE. 


away the dreary hours of the long day. With the few 
shillings left 1 bought her a bottle of wine and some 
oranges. 

That is years ago, but tears rise to my eyes now when I 
remember her pretty joy, how gratefully she thanked me, 
how delicious she found the wine, how she made me taste 
it, how she opened the books one after another, and could 
hardly believe that every day she would have the same 
happiness — three books, three beautiful new books! Ah, 
well! As one grows older, such simple pleasures do not 
give the same great joy. 

It was some time before I earned another. It was just 
as welcome, and there came to me a great wonder as to 
whether I should spend the whole of my life in this hard 
work with so small a recompense. 

“ Surely,” 1 said to myself, “ I shall rise in time; if I 
am diligent and attentive at the office, I must make my 
way.” 

But, alas! the steps were very small, and the clerks’ 
salaries were only increased by five pounds a year at a 
time. It would be so long before I earned two hundred a 
year, and at the same rate I should be an old man before I 
reached three hundred. 

One morning — it was the 1st of May — a bright, warm, 
sunny day, the London streets were more gay than usual, 
and as I walked along 1 wondered if ever again 1 should 
breathe the perfume of the lime and the lilac in the spring- 
time. I saw a girl selling violets and daffodils, with 
crocuses and spring flowers. I am not ashamed to say 
that tears came into my eyes — flowers and sunshine and 
all things sweet seemed so far from me now. 

I reached the office, and there, to my intense surprise, 
found a letter waiting me. 

“ Here is a letter for you, Mr. Trevelyan,” said the 
head clerk, carelessly. 

He gave me a large, blue official envelope. If he had 
but known what it contained! 

Some minutes passed before I had time to open it; then 
1 read as follows: 

“ To Sir Edgar Trevelyan: 

“ Sir, — We beg to inform you that by the death of Sir 
Barnard Trevelyan, and his soil, Mr. Miles Trevelyan, who 


CORALIE. 


169 


both died of the epidemic in Florence, you, as next of kin, 
will succeed. We are not aware that the late Sir Barnard 
had any other relatives. Crown Austey, the residence of 
the late baronet, is ready at any time for your reception. 
If you can favor us with a call to-day, we will explain to 
you the different ways in which the late baronet’s large 
fortune is invested. We have managed the Crown Anstey 
property for some years, and hope to have the honor of 
continuing our business relations with you. We are, sir, 
your obedient servauts, 

“ Moreland & Paine.” 

The letter fell from my hands, and I looked at it in 
blank astonishment too great for words. 

Sir Barnard Trevelyan! Crown Anstey! Why, the last 
time I ever heard those names my mother sat talking to 
me about this proud, stately cousin of my father — a cousin 
who had never noticed either him or us by word or by 
look. I was curious, and asked many questions about 
him. She told me he had married some great lady, the 
daughter of a duke, and that he had two sons— Miles, the 
eldest, and Cecil. 1 remembered having heard of Cecil’s 
death, but never dreamed that it could affect me. 

Moreland & Paine! I knew the firm very well; they had 
large offices in Lincoln’s Inn, and bore a high reputation. 
Suddenly my heart stood still. Why, of course, it was a 
jest— a sorry jest of one of my fellow-clerks. There they 
were, looking at me with eager, wondering eyes— of course 
it was a jest. My heart almost ceased to beat, and I 
caught my breath with something like a sob. 

They should not laugh at me; they should not read 
what was passing in my mind. 

I put the letter calmly and deliberately in my pocket, 
and opened my ledger. I fancied they looked disappoint- 
ed. Ah! it was but a jest; 1 would not think of it. 

1 worked hard until the dinner hour, and then asked 
permission to absent myself for a time. Dinner was not 
in my thoughts, but I went quickly as I could walk to the 
office of Moreland & Paine. 


170 


CORALIE. 


CHAPTER II. 

Mr. Paine was not in. Mr. Moreland was in his office. 
I went up the stairs, trembling, fearful of being abused 
for stupidity in taking the least notice of such a letter. 

Mr. Moreland looked up when the blerk announced my 
name— looked up, bowed, and positively rose from his 
seat. I took the letter from my pocket. 

“ I received this this morning, but believing it to be a 
jest played upon me, I have not mentioned it. 1 have 
called to ask you if you know anything of it.” 

He took the letter from me with a strange smile. 

“ I wrote it myself last evening,” he said; and I looked 
at him bewildered. 

My God! it was all true. To this moment 1 do not 
know how I bore the shock. 1 remember falling into a 
chair, Mr. Moreland standing over me with a glass of 
something in his hand, which he forced me to drink. 

“ Your fortune has a strange effect upon you,” he said, 
kindly. 

“ I can not believe it!” I cried, clasping his hand. “ 1 
can not realize it! I have been working so hard— so hard 
for one single sovereign — and now, you say, I am rich!” 

44 Now, most certainly,” he replied, “ you are Sir Edgar 
Trevelyan, master of Crown Anstey and a rent-roll of ten 
thousand a year.” 

I am not ashamed to confess that when 1 heard that I 
bowed my head on my hands and cried like a child. 

“ You have borne bad fortune better than this,” said 
Mr. Moreland; and then I remember telling him in inco- 
herent words how poor we had been, and how Clare was 
fading away for want of the nourishment and good support 
I was utterly unable to find for her. 

After a time I became calmer, and listened while he told 
me of the death of stately Sir Barnard and his eldest son. 
They had gone away together on a trip to Italy. Miles 
Trevelyan was very fond of pictures, and his father had 
given him permission to buy what he pleased for the great 
picture-gallery at Crown Anstey. 

They went together to Florence, where a fearful epi- 
demic was raging. They, all unconscious of it, remained 


CORALIE. 171 

there for one night, caught it, and in two days both lay 
dead. 

1 asked how old was Miles, this eldest and favorite son. 
He told me twenty-seven. 1 asked, again, had he never 
been married. He answered, no; that, of course, if he 
had been married, and had children, I should not be the 
heir to Crown Anstey. 

“ There was some little unpleasantness between father 
and son over a love affair,” said Mr. Moreland. “ I do 
not know the particulars. Mr. Miles Trevelyan was very 
proud aud reserved. He mentioned it to us, but we heard 
no more of it.” 

“ What am I to do next?” I asked him, nervously. 

“ You ought to go down at once to Crown Anstey. The 
bodies of the two gentlemen will be brought home for inter- 
ment. They died on the 18th; this is the 22d. We spent 
three days in trying to find out your address. They will 
be at Crown Anstey, I should say, to-morrow. You should 
be there to receive them, and to officiate as head mourner. 
Mr. Paine and myself will both be there, as a matter of 
course.” 

“ Then I must ask Mr. Lawson's permission,” 1 said, 
doubtfully. 

Mr. Moreland laughed. 

“ He will soon give you that. You will find the master 
of Crown Anstey a powerful personage.” 

“ There is another thing,” I said, with a crimson flush 
burning my face; “ I have but five shillings and sixpence 
in all the world.” 

He laughed aloud at this. 

“ 1 can advance you whatever you like, then — five hun- 
dred pounds or more.” 

The very mention of such a sum positively frightened 
me. Mr. Moreland looked very much amused. 

“ It will be some time,” he said, “ before you grow ac- 
customed to- ten thousand a year.” 

At that moment we were interrupted by the arrival of 
another client. I rose to take my leave, with a check for 
three hundred pounds in my hand. 

“ You will go down to Crown Anstey to-night?” said 
Mr. Moreland, as he shook hands with me. “ We shall be 
there to-morrow morning. You will make what arrange- 
ments seem best to you over the funeral.” 


172 


CORA LIE. 


So I went away, the most bewildered man in London. 
As 1 re-entered the office, I felt ashamed of my suspicions 
over my fellow-clerks. They were all busy, while I— 
Oh, God! could it be true? 

Mr. Lawson evidently thought I had been drinking 
when 1 went, white and stammering, confused and hesi- 
tating, into his room. He looked very sternly at me. 

“ What do you want, Mr. Trevelyan? I am very busy/’ 

I took out the letter again, and laid it before him. 

“ Will you read that, sir?” 1 asked. “ It will make 
you understand more quickly than I can. I am so con- 
fused.” 

He read it, then held out his hand to me. 

“I congratulate you,” he said. ‘‘Your poor father, 
the last time 1 saw him, spoke to me of his rich cousin. He 
never expected this. Sir Barnard had two fine, strong, 
healthy sons of his own then.” 

“ My father could not have expected it less than myself. 
I have hardly ever heard the name of Crown Anstey, and 
did not know that it was entailed property. I shall have 
to ask you to let me go this afternoon, sir.” 

He was perfectly willing. I was only at the office an 
hour, yet the news seemed to have spread. I promised the 
clerks a dinner when 1 returned, then once more I stood 
in the street, alone. 

My brain was dizzy, my thoughts in a whirl. I remem- 
ber taking a cab and driving to a shop into which I had 
often looked with longing eyes. 1 bought wine, grapes, 
peaches, flowers, dainty jellies — everything that I thought 
most likely to please my sister — and then drove home. I 
had resolved that I would not tell my good fortune to 
Clare all at once, lest there should be some fatal mistake 
unforeseen by any one. She looked up astonished when I 
entered the room, my arms full of fruit and flowers. 

“Oh, Edgar!” she cried, “you have ruined yourself. 
Why, you must have spent your whole week’s money.” 

I forget now what fiction I told her — something of a 
friend of my father, who had left me a little money, and 
that I was going away that same evening on business. 

“ Shall you be long?” she asked, with so sad a face 1 
did not like to leave her. 

“ Two or three days at the outside,” I told her. Then 
1 took twenty golden sovereigns from my purse and laid 


CORALIE. 


173 


them before her, begging her not to want for anything 
while I was away. 

She looked almost alarmed at such a quantity of money. 

“ Twenty pounds, Edgar.!” she cried; “ how rich we 
are!” And 1 thought to myself, “ If she only knew!” 

Then I went into my own room, and my first action was 
to thank God for this wonderful benefit. * I thanked Him 
with streaming eyes and a grateful heart, making a promise 
— which 1 have never broken — that 1 would act as steward 
of these great riches, and not forget the needy and the 
poor. 

At five o’clock 1 started for Thornycroft, the nearest 
town to Crown Anstey. The journey was not a very long 
one, but I took no heed of time. Was it all a dream, or 
was 1 going to take possession of a new and magnificent 
home? 

I reached the station — it was a large one. Thornycroft 
seemed to be a thriving town. No one was there to meet 
me. I went to the nearest hotel and ordered a carriage 
for Crown Anstey. 

I can recall even now my ecstasy of bewilderment at the 
splendid woods, the beautiful park, the pleasure-gardens. 
IIow long was it since I had felt tears rush warm to my 
eyes at the scent of the violets? Here were lime-trees and 
lindens, grand old oaks, splendid poplars, beech-trees, 
cedars, magnolias with luscious blossom, hawthorn, white 
and pink larches budding, and all were mine — mine. 
Then from between the luxuriant foliage 1 saw the tall 
gray towers of a stately mansion, and my whole heart went 
out to it as my future home. 

The birds were singing, the sun shining; all nature was 
so beautiful and bright that my very soul was enraptured. 

Then I caught a glimpse of gold from the laburnums, of 
purple from the lilacs, of white from the sweet acacia-trees. 

The carriage drove up a long grove of chestnut-trees, 
and then for the first time 1 saw Crown Anstey. The 
western sunbeams fell upon it. I thought of that line of 
Mrs. Hemans: 

“ Bathed in light like floating gold.” 

They showed so clearly the dainty, delicate tracing, the 
large arched windo'ws. The house itself was built in the 
old Elizabethan style. I found afterward that it was called 


174 


CORALIE. 


Crown Anstey because it had belonged in former years to 
one of the queens of England. The Queen’s Chamber was 
the largest and best room in it. Report said that a royal 
head had often lain there, that the queen to whom the 
house had belonged had spent many of her sorrowful and 
happy hours there. The Queen’s Terrace ran all along 
the western wing, and was shaded by whispering lime- 
trees. Afterward 1 found many relics of this ancient time 
of royal possessions— antique, out-of-the-way things, with 
the crown and royal arms of England upon them. I was 
not a little proud of these historical treasures. A broad 
flight of steps led from the lawp to a broad porch. As 1 
passed under it, I figured to myself the gorgeous splendor 
of other days, when “ knights and dames of high degree ” 
had entered there. 

, An old butler, evidently an old family retainer, was the 
first person 1 saw. He bowed low when I told him that I 
was Sir Edgar Trevelyan, “ the heir come to take posses- 
sion.” 

I went through the magnificent house like a man in a 
dream. Could it be possible that all this magnificence, 
all this grandeur was mine? Mine, these grand old rooms, 
with furniture and hangings that once served a queen; 
mine, these superb pictures and statues, these gems of art, 
this profusion of gold and silver plate? I laughed and 
cried in the same breath. 1 make no pretensions to being 
a strong-minded hero, and I was overcome. 

Then, when I had been some short time alone, the but- 
ler, whose name was Hewson, came back and told me the 
Red Room was ready for my use. He had selected it as 
being the most comfortable. Afterward I could, of course, 
take what rooms I liked. 

I found myself in a large, spacious chamber, called the 
Red Room, from the prevailing tint of everything in it 
being crimson. The three large windows were hung with 
crimson velvet; the carpet was crimson. I opened one of 
the windows and looked over the glorious landscape, so full 
of sunshine, flowers, and beauty, that my heart thrilled 
within me, and my soul did homage to the Great Creator. 


CORALIE. 


175 


CHAPTER III. 

Half an hour afterward I was summoned to the dining- 
room, where dinner was laid for me. God knows I had 
never coveted wealth or thought much of luxury — I had 
been content with my lot. 

What did I think when I saw that stately dining-room, 
with its brilliant lights, the gold and silver, the recherche 
dishes, the odorous wines and rare fruits? My first feeling 
was one of wonder that fortune should have so overpowered 
me; my second was a fervent wish that such pleasant times 
could fall to every one. 

1 had finished dinner and enjoyed, for the first time in 
my life, a really prime cigar, when Hewson 'came into the 
library, evidently wishing to see me. 

“ I thought I had befter tell you, Sir Edgar, that Made- 
moiselle d’Aubergne is in the drawing-room.” 

I looked at him in astonishment. 

“ Who is Mademoiselle d'Aubergne?” 1 asked. 

“ Do you not know, Sir Edgar?” he said, in great sur- 
prise. 

“ 1 have never even heard the name,” I replied. 

“ Mademoiselle is the daughter of the late Sir Barnard's 
cousin; she has been living here for the last five years. Sir 
Barnard, I believe, adopted her. 1 thought perhaps 
Messrs. Moreland & Paine might have mentioned her.” 

They had perhaps forgotten to do so, and I felt quite at 
a loss what to do. However, if there was a lady in the 
house, I was bound to be courteous; so I went to the 
drawing-room. 

I attempt no description of that magnificent room, its 
treasures of art, its statues, pictures, flowers, its wonders of 
bric-a-brac. For the first minute my eyes were dazzled, 

then I saw— . . _ J _ 

Well, 1 had read in the old poets' descriptions of the 
sirens’ wondrous language, wondrous words telling of 
beauty almost divine in its radiance — of golden hair that 
had caught the sunshine and held it captive— of eyes like 
lode-stars, in whose depths men lost themselves— of lovely 
scarlet lips that could smile and threaten. 1 saw such 
loveliness before me now. 


176 


CORA LIE. 


From the luxurious depths of a crimson velvet fauteuil 
rose a lovely woman, who advanced to meet me with out- 
stretched hands. Her mourning-dress fell in graceful 
folds around her tall, queenly figure, and from the same 
dark dress her fair face and golden head shone out bright 
and luminous as a jewel from a dark background. 

“ Sir Edgar Trevelyan,” she said, “ allow me to wel- 
come you home.” 

Her voice was sweet and rich; she had a pretty, piquant 
accent, and the play of her lips as she spoke was simply 
perfection. 

“ It is very lonely for you,” she said. “ There is great 
gloom over the house, it is all sad and dark; but the 
brightness will come back in time.” 

I touched the white hand she held out to me; it was 
warm and soft; the touch of those slender fingers had a 
magical effect. # 

“ I must apologize for not having seen you before,” I 
said, “ but until five minutes ago I did not know you were 
in the house.” 

“ No,” she replied, with a faint sigh, “ I can believe 
that.” 

“You must know,” 1 continued, “that I am a com- 
plete stranger to the family. 1 never saw any of them in 
my life. I never heard the name more than five or six 
times. ” 

“Then, as a matter of course,” she said, ‘‘you never 
heard of me.” 

“ I am at a loss to know whether 1 should address you 
as kinswoman or not,” was my confused reply. 

“ It would take a bench of lawyers to decide,” she said. 
“ My mother was a favorite cousin of Sir Barnard. 1 
think, but I am not sure, that once upon a time he was 
fond of herself. My mother married a French gentleman. 
Monsieur d’Aubergne, and at her death Sir Barnard kindly 
offered me a home here, since I had no other.” 

“ Is your father living?” I asked. 

“ Alas! no; he died when 1 was a child. There had 
been some quarrel between my mother and Sir Barnard; 
perhaps he never forgave her for marrying a Frenchman. 
During her life-time he never wrote to her, or took the 
least notice of me.” 

“ And then offered you his home?” 


CORA LIE. 


177 


“ Then he adopted me/’ she said, looking earnestly at 
me, “ treated ine in every way as his own child. I have 
been with him ever since. I have no home except here at 
Crown Anstey; and I had not a sou in the world except 
what he gave me. ' Ah! I miss him so sorely.” 

A cloud came over her beautiful face, and her lips quiv- 
ered. I sat down in sore perplexity with my inheritance. 
I had not certainly expected this. 'What was 1 to say to 
her — this beautiful and radiant woman, who seemed Ihrown 
upon my hands like a child? There was silence between 
us for some minutes, then she said, suddenly: 

“ How sad this is about poor Sir Barnard and his son, is 
it not? 1 thought at first that 1 should never recover from 
the shock. Miles was a very handsome man; so clever 
and full of spirits. 1 am told,” she continued, “ that the 
bodies are to be brought home to-night. Is it true. Sir 
Edgar?” 

“ 1 believe so. I am here to receive them, and to pre- 
side at the funeral.” 

Her face grew a shade paler. 

“ I am so frightened and nervous at everything connect- 
ed with death,” she said. 

“ Your best plan will be to remain in your own room 
until it is all over,” I suggested; and she seemed very 
grateful for the thought. 

“ Will you take some tea?” she asked, suddenly. “ I 
always made tea for Sir Barnard and Miles.” 

Then she drew back shrinkingly, her face crimson. 

“ 1 beg your pardon,” she said. “ 1 forgot; I have no 
right to take the same place now.” 

What could 1 do but hasten to implore her not to yield 
to such an idea, to consider Crown Anstey her home, as it 
had been — at least, for a time? 

“ You make me so happy!” she said; “ but how can I 
— how can I stay here? I find it awkward to explain my- 
self — how can 1 remain here with you?” 

1 hastened eagerly to explain that 1 had a sister, an in- 
valid sister, and that I should be delighted if she would 
take an interest in her; and it pleased me .to think how 
happy Clare would be. 

“ Then you wish me to remain here as a companion to 
your sister?” she said, slowly; and there was evidently 
some little disappointment in her face. 


178 


CORALIE. 


“ Unless we can think of something more pleasant for 
you,” 1 replied. “We can make that a temporary 
arrangement. In any ease, permit me to say that I shall 
take the care of- your future on my hands, as Sir Barnard 
would have done.” 

“ You are very kind,” she said, thoughtfully; “ 1 had 
no right to expect that. I did not anticipate anything of 
the sort.” 

We talked then in low tones about the late baronet and 
his son. Of Miles she said very little. Of Sir Barnard she 
told me many anecdotes, illustrating his pride, his grave, 
stately character, his intense love of caste, his conservatism. 
I felt almost as though I had known him before she had 
finished. 

“And Miles,” I said, “the poor young heir; how did 
you like him?” 

Was it my fancy, the light flickering on her face, or did 
a quick shudder pass over it? 

“Every one liked him,” she said, slowly. “He was 
proud and reserved; yet he was a general favorite.” 

She was strangely quiet after that, and I suddenly re- 
membered the drawing-room was hers. I rose, bidding 
her good-night. 

“You shall be sure to hear the stir of the arrival, made- 
moiselle,” I said; “do not let it disturb you. 1 should 
advise you to keep your room to-morrow until the funeral 
is over. ” 

Yet, although I so advised her, it struck me that she did 
not feel any great amount of sorrow. I can not tell why 1 
had that impression, but it was very strong upon me. 

Nine o'clock, and the arrival had not yet taken place. 
The fragrant gloaming was giving way to night; there was 
promise of a bright mioon, and the golden stars were peep- 
ing one by one. The night-wind was laden with odors, a 
thousand flowers seemed to have given their sweet breath 
to fan it. It would have been profanation to have lighted 
a cigar, so I went out on the Queen's Terrace, and walked 
under the whispering lime-trees, thinking of all that had 
passed in those few days. 

Slowly but surely the conviction gained upon me that 
I did not like Coralie d'Aubergne. I ought, according to 
all authentic romances, to have fallen in love with her on 
the spot, but I was far from doing so. “ Why?” 1 asked 


CORA LIE. 


179 


myself. She was very brilliant, very lovely; I had seen no 
one like her, yet the vague suspicion grew and grew. 1c 
was not the face of a woman who could be trusted; there 
was something insincere beneath its beauty. I shuuld have 
liked her better if she had shown more sorrow for the awful- 
event that had happened; as it was, I could not help 
thinking that her chief emotion had been a kind of half 
fear as to what would become of herself. 

Then 1 reproached myself for thinking so unkindly of 
her, and resolved that I would not judge her; after that I 
forgot mademoiselle. I heard the sound of carriage- wheels 
in the distance, and looking down the long vista of trees, I 
saw a hearse slowly driven up, and then I knew that the 
dead Trevelyans had been brought home. 

The desolation and sadness of that scene 1 shall never 
forget — the hearse, the dark waving plumes, the sight of 
the two heavy leaden coffins, the servants all in mourning. 

A room next the great entrance hall had been prepared; 
it was all hung with black, and lighted with wax tapers. 
In the midst stood the two coffins covered with a black 
velvet pall. 

On the coffin of Miles Trevelyan, the son and heir, 1 saw 
a wreath of flowers. 1 asked several times who had 
brought it, but no one seemed to know. 

1 do not think any one at Crown Anstey went to rest 
that night, unless it were mademoiselle. There was some- 
thing in the event to move the hardest heart. 

Father and son had left Crown Anstey so short a time 
since, full of health, vigor, strength, and plans for the 
future. They lay there now, side by side, silent and dead; 
no more plans or hopes, wishes or fears. The saddest day 
I ever remember was the one on which I helped to lay my 
two unknown kinsmen in the family vault of the Tre- 
velyans. 


CHAPTER IV. 

It was all over. The morning, with its sad office, had 
passed; the servants had gone back to their work; the 
blinds were drawn up, and light once more found its way 
into the darkened house. The will was read in the library; 
the whole of the property, entailed and unentailed, was 
left to his only son Miles, and after him to his heirs. 


180 


CORA LIE. 


There were several legacies to his servants, but no mention 
was made of mademoiselle. I thought it strange at the 
time, afterward I understood it. 

Of course, as the poor young Miles was dead without 
heirs, J, as next of kin, took his place. I faithfully carried 
out every wish expressed in the will. That same evening 
I sent orders to London for a splendid memorial window to 
be placed in the church, and while I sat wondering whether 
1 had remembered everything that required attention, there 
came a rap at the library door. Mademoiselle would be 
glad if I could see her for five minutes. 

I went at once to the drawing-room, knowing she would 
be there. She was dressed in the deepest mourning, and 
her face was very pale. 

“ I knew you would spare me a short time,” she said. 
“ I waut to ask you a question that 1 could not ask any 
one else. Of course you were present when the will was 
read to-day?” 

She raised her eyes to my face. I know not what mag- 
netism, what spell lay in them; but no other eyes were like 
them. They compelled attention; a man could no more 
release himself from their glance than he could fly. I was 
not all in love with her, yet those eyes held me spell-bound. 

“ 1 want you to tell me,” she said, “ if there was any 
other will. Did — did Miles leave one?” 

As she put the question to me, I saw that her lips were 
parched and burning, her white fingers so tightly clinched 
that they left great red marks. 

“ No,” I replied; “there was only one will, and that 
was Sir Barnard's.” 

A great calm fell over her. After some minutes she 
looked at me again. 

“ Was there any mention in that will of me?” 

I told her none. Once more she raised those resistless 
eyes to mine. 

“ Then I am indeed alone in the world — alone and for- 
saken.” 

“Nay, nay!” I cried, eagerly; “ do not say so. Clare 
will take care of you.” 

“ And you?” she asked, in a voice that must have melt- 
ed an anchorite. 

“ 1 will help her— or, rather, 1 will take care of vou 
both.” J 


CORALIE. 


181 


“ What is your sister like?” she asked, eagerly. “ Is 
she very clever— very beautiful? Shall 1 be frightened at 
her?” 

“ She is the sweetest and most gentle of girls; doubly 
gentle from her great affliction.” 

“ What affliction?” she asked, eagerly. “ You did not 
tell me there was anything the matter with her.” 

“ She has a spinal complaint,” I replied, “and is un- 
able to move.” 

“ Is it quite incurable?” she asked again. 

“ We hope not; perhaps change of air may do some- 
thing for her; but even at the best, it will be years before 
she is able to go about.” 

“ I am so sorry,” she said, “ so very sorry. How sad 
for you and for her. 1 can understand why you want a 
companion for her; she can take no active share in the 
management of a large establishment like this.” 

“ No; no share at all. We will not decide anything un- 
til my sister comes; but it seems to me that she will be 
most thankful to have you here, that you will be more 
useful to her than 1 can say. She would not be able to 
see guests, give orders, or anything of that kind.” 

There was a strange light in her eyes, a strange, sup- 
pressed glitter in her face. 

“ When will your sister come?” she inquired. 

“ I am going to-morrow to fetch her. There will be no 
need for you to make any alterations. You spoke of goiug 
away; there will be no need for that. I leave here to- 
morrow, and when my sister comes 1 suppose the sternest 
British propriety will be satisfied.” 

She smiled. 

“ I suppose so, too. And Sir Barnard has not even left 
me a mourning-ring? Well, I have so much less to be 
grateful for. The old servants were all remembered, I 
hope?” 

“All of them. I will say good-night, mademoiselle; I 
have much to attend to. I shall hope to find you well 
when 1 return.” 

What a strange fascination her beauty had ! 1 remem- 

ber it with a shudder. Her face haunted me all night; 1 
could not forget it. 

The following morning 1 returned to London. I had 


182 


COKALIE. 


yet to break the news of our fortune to Clare, and make 
arrangements for our journey to Crown Anstey. 

People who wish to be philosophers tell you money is 
nothing. Certainly, as far as the spiritual and higher, 
holier interests of life go, it is not; but as far as this world 
is concerned, it is almost everything. I had been poor and 
friendless in London, and then it had seemed to me a 
desert; now I had money, it was another place — bright, 
cheerful, every one kind and friendly. 1 seemed to float 
in sunshine; the very air around me was elastic, full of 
hope; every step was a pleasure. What made the differ- 
ence? I was poor, and now I had money. 

Clare was very pleased to see me; she cried out in aston- 
ishment at my black clothes, so new and glossy. 

44 Edgar,” she said, 44 I can not understand you. You 
have money, clothes. How is it? What has happened?” 

I knelt down by her side and took her in my arms. 

“ Clare,” 1 said, “ God has been very kind to us. All 
our poverty and privations are ended. Will you be calm 
and brave if I tell you what it is?” 

“ They have taken you into partnership!” she cried, 
rapturously. 44 They have found out how clever aud good 
you are!” 

In the midst of my agitation I laughed at this very un- 
business-like idea. 

44 It is better than that, Clare. There need be no more 
business, no more work for me. You remember hearing 
my mother speak of my father’s cousin. Sir Barnard 
Trevelyan, of Crown Anstey?” 

44 Yes, I just remember it,” she said. 44 1 had almost 
forgotten.” 

44 He is dead, and, sad to say, both his sons are dead. 
One died with him, and one died years ago. Now do you 
understand?” 

44 No,” she replied, slowly. 44 They can not have left 
us anything, because they did not know us.” 

44 Sir Barnard and his only son died together, and the 
heir to Crown Anstey, the title, and the whole of that vast 
fortune is — myself. ” 

44 You are not jesting, Edgar?” 

44 No; I am telling you the simple, perfect truth.” 
And then, when she had recovered from what to her was 
really a shock, I ga?e her the whole history. 


CORALIE. 


183 


“ 1 hope you will like mademoiselle, Clare. She is so 
utterly friendless and alone that, unless we keep her with 
us, 1 do not know what is to become of her.” 

“ I shall be sure to like her,” she said. “ My heart is 
so full of happiness that I shall love every one. Oh, 
Edgar, if 1 could but get well!” 

Yes, that was the one drawback to our happiness. The 
bright, sweet sister, who would have enjoyed our pros- 
perity so much, was a helpless invalid. 

That same afternoon I went to the office and invited all 
my fellow-clerks to a sumptuous dinner at a far-famed 
restaurant. I made some sad hearts light and happy with 
my money, thank God! Poor Stephen Knowsley had a 
sick mother, and was three quarters behind with his rent. 
I gave him fifty pounds, and the tears that stood in his 
eyes were the sweetest thanks man could have. What 
gives such pleasure as plenty of money to help one’s 
friends? 

A comfortable invalid-carriage was provided for Clare, 
and the journey did not fatigue her. We said good-bye to 
the old life, the old privations, the old trials, and embarked 
on a new, smiling, and sunny sea. 

Another week saw us comfortably settled at Crown 
Anstey. The first bewilderment of onr new position passed 
away, I began to feel more at my ease as master of that 
magnificent mansion, and on my sister’s calm face I saw 
already signs of returning health. 

We had a grand reception when I returned with Clare 
to Crown Anstey. The Anstey church bells pealed out 
merrily; the servants were all assembled; mademoiselle, 
fresh and beautiful as a morning star, was in the hall. 

I saw the kindly looks of commiseration that followed 
my sister. All the servants in the house vied with one 
another who should be most attentive. Coralie looked at 
me, with sweet, sisterly anxiety shining in her eyes. 

The following day Coralie suggested we find two nice 
large, lofty, cheerful rooms for my sister’s use. We de- 
cided upon two in the western wing — they both looked on 
the Queen’s Terrace— large, lofty rooms, with the sun 
shining on them all day, each one containing two large 
windows, from which could be seen a glorious vista of 
trees and flowers. 

Without saying one word to Clare, they were prepared 


184 


CORA LIE* 


for her. Books, music, pictures, statues, flowers were all 
arranged in order; everything bright and beautiful was 
brought there. A small part of the room was partitioned 
off and made into a conservatory where she could see the 
flowers bloom and hear the birds sing all the day long. 

I have seen many lovely places since then, but none that 
looked to me so bright and beautiful as my sister’s rooms. 
All that money could do to alleviate her sufferings was 
done. I ordered the easiest reclining-chair, on which she 
could be gently moved from room to room, resolving in 
•my own mind, no matter what went on in other parts of 
the house, that in her rooms there should be always sun- 
shine and happiness. 

Her joy when she was carried into them was most pretty 
and pathetic to see. Then, when she was fairly installed, 
I wrote to London for the celebrated Hr. Finlaison, and I 
placed her under his care. He gave me some little hope. 

In the course of time, he said, with the best of attention, 
the most tender care, and cheerful society, she would, he 
believed, recover so as to be once more able to take her 
place in the world; and the hour in which I heard that 
was, I do not hesitate to say, one of the very happiest of 
my life. 

This part of my story has been, perhaps, commonplace. 
There was coming for me a different phase. If my reader 
thinks it too romantic, I can only say — it is true. 


CHAPTER V. 

It was some little time before I asked Clare how she 
liked Coralie, then the answer was most diplomatic. 

44 1 am so very sorry for her, Edgar, and so pleased that 
she has a home with us.” 

She never said more than that, or less. Knowing her 
aimable character, I came to the conclusion that she did 
not like her, but was too good-natured and kind-hearted 
to say so. 

Mademoiselle, as she was called in the household, was 
very kind to my sister. She engaged a maid, whose only 
business was to wait upon her; and more than that, she 
spent some hours, at least, every day in her room. She 
attended to her flowers, fed her birds, selected her books, 
played and sung to her, read to her, talked to her in her 


COEALIE. 


185 


bright, lively way, superintended her dress, so that 1 always 
saw my darling exquisitely attired; and yet I could not see 
that Clare liked her. 

She soon made herself almost indispensable. She gave 
orders to the housekeeper and cook, she managed every- 
thing; she received our visitors, and entertained them with 
marvelous grace and courtesy; she understood all the 
affairs of the estate; in fact, she was, to all intents and 
purposes, mistress of the house. 

1 insisted upon making her a very handsome allowance, 
which, after a little resistance, she accepted. 

For a time everything went on most prosperously. How 
1 loved my new life no words of mine can tell. The luxury 
of having plenty of money, of being able to do what I liked 
with my time, of seeing my sister so happy, of being alto- 
gether without those dark fears for the future which so 
often beset those whose lot is hard work and very limited 
means— I thanked God for it all. 

1 had made the acquaintance of most of the tenants on 
the estate, and my neighbors had begun to call upon me. 
It was surprising how every one liked, or, I may say, loved, 
my sister Clare. That invalid couch of hers became a 
kind of center of society. 

One morning I saw some cards lying on the hall table. 
Coralie was standing near when 1 took them up. “ Sir 
John Thesiger,” “ Lady Thesiger.-” 

“ That is a new name,” I said to mademoiselle. 

When she took the card from my hand and saw it, a 
dark look came over her face; I saw her lips close more 
firmly. 

“ Have you not heard of the Thesigers? I thought 
every one knew Sir John. They live at Harden Manor, 
about five miles from here.” 

“ Are they old friends of the family?” I asked. 

Again the darkening look and the tightening lips. 

“ Both Sir Barnard and Miles knew them, but I can not 
say whether they were very great friends. Shall you call?” 

She asked the question carelessly, but 1 saw she was 
awaiting my reply with painful anxiety. 

“ Yes, I shall go; I like to be on friendly and intimate 
terms with all my neighbors. Sir John is the Tory mem- 
ber for Chingwell, is he not?” 

“Yes,” she replied, shortly. 


186 


CORALIE. 


“ And next year I hope to be returned for Anstey, so 
that, of all men, I shall probably find him the most useful 
of acquaintances. ,, 

She turned away, and a sudden conviction came over 
me that for some reason or other Coralie d’Aubergne did 
not like the Thesigers. I rode over to Harden Manor on 
the day following, and found Sir John at home. 

1 liked him at first sight — a frank, kind-hearted English 
gentleman. He was pleased to see me, and we spent 
some time talking over the late baronet and his son. He 
told me something I had not heard from Coralie — that 
there had been some slight misunderstanding between 
father and son. He asked me if I would join the ladies, 
who were in the drawing-room. I was only too pleased. 

“ Lady Thesiger was Sir Barnard's confidant. He con- 
sulted her about everything — indeed, we were such near 
and dear friends that you must forgive me if 1 can not look 
upon you as a stranger.” 

Entering a very pretty drawing-room, long, low, and 
old-fashioned, 1 saw two ladies, one a matron, the other a 
lovely young girl. Sir John introduced me to his wife, 
and then to Agatha, his daughter. 

Looking up, I saw my fate. Never believe those eold- 
natured, cold-hearted people who tell you that love grows 
from respect. It does not. It comesdnto existence all at 
once — suddenly, as a flower is kissed into color by the sun. 
When 1 entered Harden Manor, I was heart-whole, fancy- 
free, loving no one but Clare; after one upward look in 
Agatha Thesiger’s face, 1 loved her with a love that was 
my doom. 

Sir John looked at me in amazement. 

“ I — I did not know you had a daughter, Sir John.” 

“Ah! but I have, and a very precious one, too. Poor 
Sir Barnard was very fond of Agatha; he used to call her 
his sunbeam. I was almost jealous of him at times.” 

“ There was no need, papa,” said a sweet voice, the very 
sound of which made me tremble. 

Why had mademoiselle never mentioned this young girl, 
so fair, so lovely? why had she told me nothing about her? 
I should like to describe her, reader, so as to make you 
love her. She was tail, very little above the medium 
height, slender, graceful, with a delicate arched neck, and 
the “ fairest face the sun e’er shone on.” Not beautiful 


CORA LIE. 


187 


— that word would not describe her; fair, sweet, and love- 
ly. She had no brilliant or vivid coloring, her complexion 
was clear, with the faintest rose-bloom, her eyes large and 
blue, her lips sweet and sensitive, a white ‘ brow, and a 
wealth of soft brown hair. She was no queenly beauty; 
she had not Coralie’s brilliancy and blight coloring, but 
she was the fairest and most lovable girl who ever made a 
man’s heart glad. 

1 did not know how the next few minutes passed. Sir 
John and Lady Thesiger were talking about the neighbor- 
hood, and 1 was thinking that if Agatha bid' me lie down 
there at her feet and die for her sweet sake, I should do so 
with a smile. 

When I came to my senses, Lady Thesiger was asking 
me if 1 would dine with them the week following; they 
were expecting some visitors from London. I am sure she 
must have thought me almost an imbecile, I answered her 
in such a confused, hesitating way. 

All the time Agatha sat opposite to me, her lovely eyes 
drooping over the drawing on which she was engaged when 
I entered. I could bear it no longer; come what might, 1 
must see those eyes. I went over and stood by her side. 

Alas! I had rarely, if ever, spoken to any young ladies 
except Clare and Coralie. 1 had crossed the room pur- 
posely to speak to her. Standing by her chair, every word 
1 had ever known in my life died from my memory, I 
could not think of one thing to say. 

Bending over the picture, I asked if she were fond of 
drawing, and then I hated myself for the utter imbecility 
of the question. 

When once the blue eyes were raised to mine all con- 
straint died away; they kindled a fire in my heart that 
nothing could ever extinguish. 

“ Miss Thesiger,” 1 said, “ I should be so pleased if I 
could excite your interest in my sister.” 

“Have you a sister?” asked Lady Thesiger. “1 did 
not know it; 1 arn afraid she will think me very remiss.” 

I told them all i^bout Clare, speaking, as was my 
fashion, with my heart upon my lips, telling them of her 
sweetness, her patience, her long illness, her cheerful resig- 
nation. Agatha forgot her reserve. Lady Thesiger looked 
deeply interested, and when I had finished speaking, the 
tears were in my eyes. 


188 


CORALIE. 


Lady Thesiger held out her hand. 

“ You have quite touched my heart. Sir Edgar; I shall 
not rest until 1 have seen Miss Trevelyan.” 

“ Nor I,” added her daughter. 

I turned eagerly to her. 

“ You will come often to see my sister? I should be so 
grateful; she would welcome you so warmly. I have 
always longed for her to have a friend.” 

There was a slight constraint in the faces of mother and 
daughter. 1 wondered what it meant. Lady Thesiger 
was the first to speak. 

44 We shall be delighted to do all that lies in our power 
to soften Miss Trevelyan’s terrible affliction. Pray, par- 
don me. Sir Edgar, but is Mademoiselle d’Aubergne still 
at Crown Anstey?” 

“ She is. staying there as companion to my sister, who 
is utterly incapable of taking any share in the management 
of the house.” 

“ You must find a wife,” said Sir John. “ I should say 
myself that Crown Anstey requires a mistress.” 

I longed to say there and then how I should pray him 
to give me his daughter for a wife. Our eyes met. She 
must have read my thoughts, for her face grew crimson, 
nor did I catch another glimpse of those lovely eyes during 
my visit. 

It was with difficulty I could tear myself away. Sir 
John, who was a great connoisseur in horses, went with 
me to see Bonnie Prince. While we stood on the lawn he 
turned to me with a constrained smile. 

“ So mademoiselle is still at Crown Anstey,” he said. 
44 I suppose she is as beautiful as ever?” 

“ Tastes differ,” I replied, oddly. “ Her beauty is not 
according to my idea ” 

His kindly face cleared. 

4 4 That is right; she is of the siren order; some people 
would find her irresistible. Now, pardon me if I say one 
word. I have known the lady for five years, and know 
nothing against her, still mistrust her without knowing 
why.. You are young, new to the world, new, perhaps, to 
-the influence of great womanly beauty; keep your heart 
safe. Do not let Mademoiselle d’Aubergne take it from 
you.” 

44 There is no fear,” I replied, with a light laugh. 


CORA LIE. 


189 


“ Some day, Sir John, I will tell you where my heart has 
found its home. ” 

“lam glad you know how to take a hint given in all 
kindness,” he said, cordially. “ As my old friend’s heir 
and representative, my heart warms to you.” 

1 left Harden Manor a changed man. The very earth 
around seemed changed to me, the sky wore a deeper blue, 
the grass a fairer green; there was new music in the birds’ 
songs and in the whisper of the wind, new hope in my own 
heart, new beauty all around me. That was the beginning 
of the glamour poets call frenzy, men call love. 

Mademoiselle was out on the lawn as 1 rode up to the 
door. She came to meet me, her glittering eyes on my 
face. 

“ Have you enjoyed your visit?” she asked. 

“ More than I ever enjoyed anything in my life. You 
did not tell me what a beautiful neighbor I had at Harden 
Manor. ” 

“ 1 never thought of it,” she replied, carelessly. 
“ Agatha Thesiger is only a school-girl. ” 

“ Then school-girls are very different from what 1 
thought them,” was my reply; and mademoiselle turned 
away with a strange smile. 


CHAPTER YI. 

No matter what 1 did, that face was always before me. 
If 1 read, it looked up at me with sweet, serene eyes from 
the pages of my book. It rose between me and the blue 
heavens. I saw it in every flower. It haunted me until I 
could have cried out for respite from the pleasure that was 
yet half pain. 

Poets sing of the joy and the rapture of love. Who 
knows its pain? For pain it surely is when no sleep comes 
near you, and the every-day duties of life only weary you, 
and your sole desire is to dream over looks and words you 
can not forget. It is surely pain when a thousand doubts 
assail you, when you weigh yourself in the balance and 
find yourself wanting. 

A "hundred times each day 1 found myself wondering 
whether Sir John would think me good enough for his 
daughter. She was not his heiress, I knew, for he had a 
son at college, but she was lovely, high-born, accomplished. 


190 


CORALIE. 


and my one great puzzle was whether he would think me 
a good match for her. 

Other doubts came to madden me. Perhaps she was 
already engaged. She had doubtless a number of admir- 
ers. Who was I that I should dare to hope for her favor? 

It was only two days since 1 had seen her, and I longed 
to see her again. A fierce, wild desire to look once more 
into that sweet face took possession of me. When my 
longing was gratified, the very gates of Paradise seemed 
opened to me. One beautiful morning Lady Thesiger and 
Agatha came over to Crown Anstey. 

It so happened that I was in Clare’s room when they 
arrived, and Coralie, too, was there, attending to the 
flowers, giving them fresh water, cutting off dead leaves, 
and gathering the fairest buds. 

Lady Thesiger and Miss Thesiger were suddenly an- 
nounced. Clare looked eagerly, and I just caught the 
dark, bitter expression on Coralie’s face; then they 
entered. As a matter of course, I introduced Lady 
Thesiger first. She stooped down to kiss the sweet face 
that seemed to win universal love. Then I remember tak- 
ing Agatha’s hand, and leading her up to Clare. What 
could they have thought of me? 1 forgot everything, ex- 
cept that the two women I loved best were there together. 

Lady Thesiger then turned toward mademoiselle. There 
was no kindly hand extended, no warm greeting, no 
friendly words. Lady Thesiger made the most formal of 
bows, Coralie returned it by one more formal still, Agatha 
did the same, and a strange, constrained silence fell upon 
us all. 

Without a word mademoiselle quitted the room. The 
beauty of her face was not pleasant in that moment; there 
was a glitter in her eye, a compression of her lips that 
might have told any one to beware. 

Lady Thesiger became her own natural self after 
Coralie’s departure; she talked so kindly. to Clare that I 
could have kissed her hand in gratitude. 

I took Miss Thesiger to show her my sister’s flowers; for 
no word of mine would those lovely eyes look up. She 
was not shy, her grace of manner was too perfect for that, 
but she was evidently afraid to look at me, and I re- 
proached myself that I had perhaps frightened her at first. 

Patiently I showed her flower after flower, perfect bud 


CORALIE. 


191 


and perfect blossom, the little white doves I had tamed, 
the birds of bright plumage I had bought to amuse my 
sister. I showed her the little fountains that rippled all 
day, the rocks and ferns. She admired everything. 

“ Your sister must be happy in spite of her illness,” she 
said to me. 

But I could bear those drooping eyes no longer. 

“ Miss Thesiger,” 1 said, hurriedly, “ do not be unkind 
to me. I know 1 am very presumptuous, but do, pray do, 
give me one kind look before you go.” 

Then she raised her eyes and looked at me. Alas! my 
tell-tale face. They fell again, and the crimson flush 
mounted to her white brow. 1 could say no more to her 
after that. She went to her mother’s side, and they talked 
to Clare until it was time for lunch. 

I asked if they would remain and take lunch with my 
sister. They consented, and when it was arranged I sent 
to ask Coralie if she would join us. Her answer was that 
she was busily engaged, and begged we would excuse her. 
Again I felt sure that Lady Thesiger looked considerably 
relieved. 

Every moment I was falling more deeply and more help- 
lessly in love, and yet across all my rapturous thoughts of 
Agatha came doubt and wonder as to why they did not like 
Coralie. 

Strange; she had the beauty of a siren, the grace and 
wit of a queen of society, the talents and accomplishments 
of a complete woman of the world, yet no one seemed to 
like her. How could it be? 

Lady Thesiger rose at last, declaring that she was 
ashamed of the length of her visit. When they were gone 
1 went back to Clare. She looked up at me with a smile; 
there was a bright flush of animation on her face. 

“How much 1 like them, Edgar; how kind Lady 
Thesiger is, and Agatha! Oh, brother, how I wish that 1 
had a sister like her!” 

I thought I would ask her to solve my doubt. 

“ Clare,” 1 said, gravely, “ 1 want you to explain some- 
thing to me. You, being a woman, can understand women. 
Tell me how it is no one likes Coralie. She is beautiful 
and clever, why is it no one cares for her?” 

My sister looked at me uneasily. 

“ X can not tell. I wish you would not ask me, Edgar.” 


192 


COKALIE. 


“Nay; tell me what you think ?” 

“ Then I fancy it must be because she is not quite 
sincere. I do not like saying anything so unkind. You 
must not let it prejudice you against her; but she gives 
me always the impression of a person who leads two lives 
— one that everybody sees, and one that nobody under- 
stands save herself.” 

“ How old should you imagine her to be?” I asked; and 
again my sister looked uneasily at me. 

“We have been in the habit of considering her a young- 
girl/* she replied, “but do you know, Edgar, I believe 
she is more than thirty.” 

“ It is impossible!” I cried. “ Why, Clare, she does 
not look a day more than eighteen. ” 

“ She is what the French people call well preserved. 
She will look no older for the next ten years. She has a 
girl’s figure and a girl’s face, but a woman’s heart, Edgar. 
I’m sure of it.” 

“ She is thirty, you say, and has been here for five 
years; that would make her a woman of twenty-five before 
she left France. A French woman of twenty-five has lived 
her life.” 

“ That, is just what I mean,” she replied. “ Rely upon 
it, for all her -girlish face and girlish ways, Coralie d’Au- 
bergne has lived hers.” 

“Clare,” 1 asked, half shyly, “how do you like Miss 
Thesiger?” 

A look bright as a sunbeam came over my sister’s face. 

“ Ah! hers is a beautiful nature — sweet, frank, candid, 
transparent — no two lives there, Edgar. Her face is as 
pure as a lily, and her soul is the same. No need to turn 
from me, dear, I read your secret when she came in. If 
you give me such a sister as that, 1 shall be grateful to 
you.” 

“ Then you think there might be some chance for me if 
I asked her to become my wife?” 

“ Assuredly. Why not?” 

She said no more, for at that moment Coralie returned; 
she had been in the garden gathering some flowers for 
Clare; the brightest bloom was on her face, the brightest 
light was in her eye. Looking at her, it was impossible to 
believe that she was anything but a light-hearted, happy 
girl. 


CORA LIE. 


193 


She glanced round the loom. 

“ Your visitors are gone,” she said. “ I felt sure they 
were staying for dinner.” 

“ Coralie,” 1 asked, “ Lady Thesiger tells me she has 
been here a great deal, yet you do not seem to be on very 
intimate terms with her?” 

“ No,” she said, with that frank smile that was lovely 
enough to charm any one. “ I neither like nor admire 
Lady Thesiger. ” 

Clare uttered a little cry of astonishment. 

“ Why not?” I asked. 

“ I should not like to prejudice you against them, Sir 
Edgar; but as you ask me, I will tell you. The Thesigers 
have but one object. ” 

“ What is it?” I inquired, for she had paused abruptly, 
and seemed to be entirely engrossed in her flowers. 

“ The one aim they have had in view for several years 
past is to see Agatha mistress of Crown Anstey. She was 
educated solely and entirely for that purpose.” 

“ 1 do not believe it!” cried Clare, indignantly. 

“ 1 should never expect you to do so. You are too un- 
worldly, too good; you know nothing of the manners of 
fashionable people. Sir Barnard knew it. They fairly 
hunted him down; they were always driving over here, or 
asking Sir Barnard and Miles there; they were continually 
contriving fresh means to throw Miles and Agatha to- 
gether. ” 

I would not please her by showing my anger. 

“Perhaps,” 1 said, carelessly,. “ Miles admired her; he 
may even have been her lover.” 

She turned to me with a strange, glittering smile, a look 
I could not fathom on her face. 

“No,” she replied; “Miles knew all about it; he was 
too sensible to be caught by the insipid charms of a mere 
school-girl. Sir Barnard was not so wise; he would have 
liked to join the two estates — he spoke of it very often — 
but Miles never gave the matter a serious thought.” 

There was such ill-concealed bitterness in her words and 
look, such malice in that glittering smile, I turned away 
half in disgust. 

“ All our neighbors understand Lady Thesiger’s poli- 
tics,” she continued; “ they have been a source of great 
amusement for some time.” 


CORALIE. 


194 

“Miss Thesiger is not a day above eighteen,” I said, 
fairly angry at last, “ so that there can not have been 
much time for maneuvering.” 

“Ah!” she said, “ how I admire you, Sir Edgar. That 
simple, noble faith you have in women is most beautiful to 
me; one sees it so seldom in those who have lived always 
among fashionable men and women.” 

A little speech that was intended to remind me how 
strange and fresh 1 was to this upper world. I began to 
find something like dislike to mademoiselle growing up in 
my mind, but I spoke to her of the Thesigers no more. 


CHAPTER VII. 

It seems an unmanly thing to write of a woman — my 
own face flushes hotly as I write the words — but to make 
my story plain the truth must be told. I could not help 
seeing that Coralie d’Aubergne was growing to like me 
very much. 

To describe how a man wooes a woman is a task pleas- 
ant enough. It is natural and beautiful; he is in his place 
then, and she in hers; but who would not shrink from the 
hateful task of describing how a woman wooes a man! 

God bless all women, say I. My life has been a long 
one, and my experience of them bids me say they are 
almost all angels. 1 have found them true, tender, and 
earnest. 1 could tell stories of women’s quiet heroism that 
would move any one’s heart. God bless them one and all 
— they are the chief comfort in life. 

Still even I, who love and respect them so much, am 
compelled to own that there are women wanting in purity 
and goodness, in modesty and reserve. I grieve to say 
Coralie d'Aubergne was one of them. She pursued me; 
and yet it was all so quietly done that she left me no room 
to speak — no ground on which to interfere. 

If I went out in the gloaming to smoke my cigar, as 1 
liked best to do among the sighs of the roses, in a few 
minutes that beautiful fair face was sure to be smiling at 
my side. She had a pretty, picturesque way of throwing 
a black lace shawl over her shoulders and of draping it 
round her head, so making her face lock a thousand times 
more fair. 


CORA LIE. 


195 


She would come to me with that graceful, easy, dignified 
walk of hers, and say: 

“ If 1 am not intruding. Sir Edgar, I should enjoy a few 
minutes with you.” 

She had a wonderful gift of conversation — piquant, 
sparkling, and intellectual. If 1 had not been the dullest 
of the dull, I should have known that such a woman would 
not pass her life as a companion without she had some 
Wonderful end in view. She was far too brilliant. She 
would have made a good ambassadress, for she could make 
herself all things to all men. No matter what subject in- 
terested you, on that she could speak. She seemed to 
understand every one intuitively; one’s likes, dislikes, 
tastes. She had a wondrous power of reading character. 
She was worldly with the worldly, good with the good, ro- 
mantic with the young, sensible with the old. To me she 
was always the same. Sometimes, when I saw her coming 
to meet me along. those paths where the rose leaves lay 
dead, I felt inclined to go away and leave her; but natural 
politeness came to my and. Then when she had talked to 
me for a few minutes, a strange, subtle charm would steal 
over me. 

I knew her well-chosen compliments were all flattery. 
I knew she was pursuing me for some object of her own. 
Yet that charm no words can describe was stronger than 
my reason. Away from her I disliked her, my judgment 
was all against her; in her presence no man could well 
help being fascinated. 

I thank Heaven that I had the shield of a pure and holy 
love; 1 was but a weak man, and nothing else saved me. 
If there came a wet day, or one that was not pleasant for 
walking, she had a thousand ways of making time fly. 
She played billiards as well as any man; she read aloud 
more beautifully and perfectly than I have ever heard any 
one else. She made every room she entered cheerful; she 
had a fund of anecdote that never seemed to be exhausted. 

But the time she liked best for weaving her spells was 
after sunset, before the lamps were lighted. 

“ You are fond of music. Sir Edgar,” she would say to 
me. “ Come, and I will sing you some songs I used to 
sing years ago. ” 

And she did sing. Listening to her I could well believe 
in the far-famed Orpheus’s lute. It was enough to bewil- 


196 


COJIALIE. 


der any man. She had a sweet, rich voice, a contralto of 
no ordinary merit, and the way in which she used it was 
something never to be forgotten. 

There was a deep bay-window in the drawing-room, my 
favorite nook; from it there was a splendid view of waving 
trees and blooming flowers. She would place my chair 
there for me, and then sing until she sung my senses away. 
There was such power, such pathos, such passion in her 
voice that no one could listen to it unmoved. 

Then, when she had sung until my very senses were 
steeped in the sweet madness of her music, she would come 
and sit, sometimes by my side, sometimes on a Turkish 
cushion at my feet. 

Aud then — well, 1 do not like to ‘say more, but as 
women can woo, she wooed me. Sometimes her hand, so 
warm and soft, would touch mine; sometimes, to see what: 
I was reading, she would bend over me until her hair 
brushed my cheek and the perfume of the flowers she 
always wore reached me. * 

Thank God, I say again, that I was shielded by a pure 
love. 

“ IIow I love Crown Anstey,” she said to me one even- 
ing; “ if I were asked to choose between being crowned 
Queen of Great Britain, or mistress of Crown Anstey, I 
should prefer to remain here.” 

How well I remember that evening! The golden summer 
was dying then; the flowers seemed to be yielding all their 
sweetest perfumes to it; there was a lovely light from the 
evening sky that lingered on the tufted lime-trees; the 
birds were singing a faint, sweet vesper hymn; the time so 
soon was coming when they were to cross the sunny seas in 
search of warmer climes. 

1 had been reading to Clare, but she did not seem to be 
quite so well, and asked to be left alone. 

“ Let Coralie play and sing for you, Edgar,” she said; 
“ I shall hear the faint sound of it, and it will make me 
happy, because I shall know that you are well amused. ” 

I did not like to tell her how distasteful Coralie’s play- 
ing and singing were to me. We went into the drawing- 
room together. I saw how everything was prepared for 
me; there were fresh flowers, my favorite periodicals, my 
favorite chair, placed in the nook I liked best. 

“ I shall sing you some gay French chansons said 


COKALIE. 


197 


Coralie, “ and we will leave the door open so that Clare 
may hear them.” 

A few moments later and I was in an atmosphere of 
delight. The rich sweet music rose and fell, it cheered me 
like strong wine. 

Then after a time its character changed; it was no 
longer gay, triumphant, and mirthful. The very spirit of 
love and pathos seemed to breathe through it. My heart 
beat, every nerve thrilled, every sense answered to those 
sweet, soft words. 

It ceased then, and Coralie came over to the bay- 
window. She sat down upon the Turkish cushions, and 
looked with longing eyes at the light on the trees and 
flowers. There was a softened expression on her face, 
a flush as of awakened emotion, a new and brighter light 
in those dark, dangerous eyes. The white fingers trem- 
bled, the white bosom heaved as though she had felt deeply 
the words she had been singing. 

Then it was she said she would rather be mistress of 
Crown Anstey than Queen of Great Britain. 

I laughed, not knowing what to say. 

“ Crown Anstey ought to thank you very much,” 1 
said. “ You pay it a great compliment.” 

“ My heart is here,” she continued, those dreamy eyes 
still fixed upon mine. “ I think if any one were to say to 
me, ‘ You must leave Crown Anstey/ 1 should die.” 

AU the music on earth seemed embodied in those few 
words. 

“I should die,” she repeated, “just as a flower dies 
when it is torn from the soil where it has taken deep 
root.” 

“ Why do you speak of such things?” I asked. “ No 
one thinks of your going; this is your home.” 

“ In my happiest hours the fear lies heaviest upon me,” 
she replied. “ No one has ever spoken of my going, that 
is true; but I have common sense, and common sense tells 
me, if certain events happen, I must go.” 

“ What events do you mean?” I asked, all uncon- 
sciously. 

She sighed deeply. 

“ If you were to be married, Sir Edgar — Cousin Edgar, 
I like to say best— then 1 must go.” 

“ I do not see the necessity.” 


198 


COKALI E. 


“ Ah! you do not understand; women are all jealous. 
I have grown so accustomed to perform a hundred little 
services for you, they make the pleasure and sunshine of 
my life. To be able to do some little thing to help you is 
the highest earthly joy that 1 can ever know. When you 
are married. Sir Edgar, your wife will take all this happi- 
ness from me. ” 

“ 1 do not see why,” I replied, dryly, inwardly wishing 
myself safe in Clare’s room. 

“Ah! you do not understand — men never can under- 
stand the love of women. Wives, above all, are so very 
jealous. Fancy, if ever I wanted to make your tea, or get 
anything ready for you, she would be angry and I should 
be wretched.” 

“ In that case you must make tea for Clare instead of 
me.” 

“ If I am anywhere near you, 1 must always attend to 
you before every one and anything in the wide world,” she 
said, impulsively. 

“ You are making very sure that my wife will not like 
you,” I said. “ What if I have no wife?” 

She shook her head gravely. 

“You will marry. Sir Edgar. All the Trevelyans of 
Crown Anstey marry, as becomes the head of a grand old 
family. You will marry, and your wife will be the hap- 
piest woman in the world.” 

“ I may be a modern Bluebeard, Coralie.” 

“ No; you' will not. Ah, me! To go away and leave 
Crown Anstey — to leave you — I shall feel like Eve driven 
forth from Paradise to die.” 

My hand lay carelessly on the back of a chair. She 
bent down swiftly and laid her burning lips upon it. I 
would not tell — my face flames as I write the word — but 
unless you know all, reader, you will not understand mv 
story. 

She laid her warm, soft lips upon it; and though I did 
not love her — did not even trust her — the magnetic touch 
thrilled every neve. 1 took my hand away. 

“ Ah, cousin!” she said, looking at me with those dark, 
dangerous eyes, “ you love even your dog Hector better 
than me.” 

She was so near to me that the perfume from her flowers 
reached me. It was by a desperate effort I broke the spell. 


COKALI E. 


190 


“This room is insufferably, warm,” I said; “ I am go- 
ing into the garden. You had better see if Clare wants 
anything, Coralie.” 

So, like many another man, I ran away, not knowing 
how to meet my fair adversary on equal grounds. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Walking among the whispering leaves, the conclusion 
I came to was that I must take some precaution, or Coralie 
d'Aubergne would marry me, whether I was willing or 
not. A siren is a faint shadow compared with a beautiful 
woman resolved to win a man whether he wants winning 
or not. 

Why not risk my fate and ask Agatha to be my wife? 
There was a faint hope in my heart that she would not re- 
fuse me, yet she was so modest, so retiring, that though I 
had most perseveringly sought her favor since the first mo- 
ment I had seen her, I could not tell whether she cared for 
me or not. 

To judge by Coralie’s standard, she did not like me. In 
all our conversation it half maddened me to see the lovely 
eyes 1 loved so 1 dearly dropped shyly away from me. 

It may not be a very elegant comparison, but she always 
reminded me of some shy, beautiful bird. She had a 
bright, half-startled way of looking at me. Several times, 
when I met her suddenly, I saw the lovely face flush and 
the little hands tremble. 

Did she love me, or did she not? 1 could not tell. Of 
whom should 1 take counsel? There was a bird singing 
over me; I wondered if that sweet night-song was all of 
love. Alas! that 1 had not been more into the world of 
women— their ways and fashions were all mysteries to me. 

“ Faint heart never won fair lady,” says the old prov- 
erb, and it ran through my mind. I resolved to try my 
fortune. If she did not love me, why then, life held noth- 
ing more for me. If I could not win her, 1 would never 
ask the love of woman more, but live out my life with 
Clare. 

Like many other anxious lovers, I lay awake all night, 
wondering what I should say to her, how 1 should woo 
her, in what words I should ask her to be my wife. When 
day dawned 1 was still undecided, only that it was to be. 


200 


CORALIE. 


“You are going away early,” said Coral ie, as I ordered 
mv horse. “ Surely you - will not be away all day. Sir 
Edgar?” 

“ 1 am going to Harden Manor, and can not say when I 
shall return. Do not wait dinner for me — 1 may dine 
there. ” 

“ It will be a long, dark day,” she said, with a sigh. 
“ Do not be late — every hour will seem like two.” 

She hovered round me, asking many questions, evidently 
seeking to know my business there. When my horse was 
brought to the door, she came to me with a delicate spray 
of heliotrope. Never had she looked so beautiful. Her 
dark, radiant eyes, full of fire and tenderness, were raised 
to mine; there was a charming flush on her face, her white 
fingers held the flower almost caressingly. 

“ Let me fasten this in your coat, Sir Edgar. No gen- 
tleman looks completely dressed without a flower. You 
do not know what heliotrope means. Men never — or, at 
least, very seldom — care for the sweetest of all languages 
— the language of flowers. What that heliotrope means, 
cousin, I say to you. ” 

It was not until some weeks afterward that, looking 
quite accidentally over an old book, I discovered the spray 
of heliotrope meant, “ I love you.” 

The beautiful picture of this fair, passionate woman died 
from my mind as I went to seek one a thousand times 
more fair. How well I remember the day — the golden 
sunshine, the fragrant wind, the blooming flowers, as 1 
rode forth to win my love! It seemed to me that the sum- 
mer skies smiled on me, and the singing-birds wished me 
joy. 

The way to Harden Manor lay through green flowery 
lanes and a shady high-road. It seemed long, because my 
heart sighed to be with her; yet short, because I was so un- 
certain what to say, and how my wooing would end. 

I reached the manor at last. Sir John was from home. 
Lady Thesiger and Agatha were busily engaged in making 
pretty fancy articles for a grand fancy fair that was to be 
held — for the benefit of some out-of-the-way people — by 
special permission of His Grace the Duke of Fairholme in 
the grounds of Fairholme Castle. 

Lady Thesiger looked up when I entered with a smile. 

“ Good-morning, Sir Edgar; I am very glad to see you. 


COKALIE. 


201 


Agatha and I were just wishing we had a gentleman to 
help us. Are you willing to assist us for a day?” 

My face flushed hotly with delight. 

“ Am I willing to give myself a day of Utopian delight, 
Lady Thesiger? Most certainly. I will do any(hing—l 
can be very useful. 1 can mount drawings, frame photo- 
graphs, sketch and design, and my humble talents are all 
yours.” 

Then Agatha looked at me, and the glance of those eyes 
was so sweet 1 almost lost myself. 

“The Cherokee Indians, or whatever they are called, 
will be much obliged to you,” she said. “ I can not call 
working for them ‘ Utopian delight/ my fingers ache with 
this stifl card-board. ” 

“ You willfully misunderstand me. Miss Thesiger; the 
delight consists in being with you, not in working fqr the 
Cherokees. Save that I shudder when 1 hear that they 
have eaten a missionary, they have no particular interest 
for me.” 

Lady Thesiger smiled. 

“ You must work, not talk. Sir Edgar. Sit down here, 
pray, and if you think Miss Trevelyan will be uneasy, 1 
will send a servant to tell her that you will remain here 
for lunch and for dinner.” 

“ 1 prepared her for that emergency; now give me some- 
thing to do for the Cherokees.” 

My hands were soon filled. It was pleasant sitting there 
in that fragrant, sunny drawing-room, with two of the 
most gracious and graceful women in England. Yet it 
was hard. I had gone there purposely to tell the story of 
my love, and now I was condemned to sit for hours by 
Agatha’s side and say nothing to her. 

“ Perhaps fortune may favor me,” I thought; “ Lady 
Thesiger may leave the room, and then I will not lose a 
moment. ” 

How fervently 1 blessed these Cherokees before the day 
ended, no one will ever know. Lady Thesiger never left 
us; Agatha worked very hard. Looking at the sweet, 
calm, high-bred face, I wondered if she knew that a lover, 
with his heart on fire, sat near her. 

Lunch came — we went to the dining-room. Lady 
Thesiger told us we had only half an hour to spare; she had 


202 


CO II A LIE. 


promised the duchess to send everything in that evening, 
and she did not wish to break her word. 

“It is worse than slavery,” I said; and Lady Thesiger 
laughed, little knowing why I was so impatient. 

Back again to work. Happily, all was finished, and 
the servants were called in to pack the petty, fragile 
articles. 

“ Now I shall have five minutes,” I thought to myself, 
“ and 1 will find out whether she cares for me or not.” 

Alas! there was the dressing-bell. “We have just 
finished in time for dinner,” said Lady Thesiger. “ Sir 
John will not be at home; he does not return until late.” 

1 was tortured with impatience. Had 1 been waiting 
for a verdict over life or death, my agony would not have 
been one half so great. 

The long ordeal of dinner had to pass. 

“ 3Tou will allow me to go to the drawing-room with 
you,” 1 said to the mistress of the house. “ I could not 
sit here alone. ” 

Then I saw a chance. Agatha went to the piano and 
played one of Mendelssohn's “ Songs Without Words.” 
The difference between the pure, sweet, high-bred English 
girl and the brilliant, seductive French woman never ap- 
peared to me so great as when they were at the piano. 
Coralie’s music wrapped one’s soul, steeped one’s senses, 
brought one nearer to earth; Agatha’s took one almost 
straight to heaven. Listening to her, pure and holy 
thoughts came, high and noble impulses. 

Then, seeing that Lady Thesiger looked tired, I sug- 
gested that she should rest upon the sofa while I took 
Miss Thesiger for a little stroll through the gardens. The 
evening was beautifully warm and clear, the golden sun 
lingering as though loath to leave the fair woidd to dark- 
ness. 

At last, at last! My hands trembled with impatience as 
I drew the black lace mantilla over her white shoulders. 
At last, at last 1 had her all to myself; only the birds and 
flowers around us; only the blue sky overhead. 

Then, when I would have given worlds for the power of 
speech, a strange, dull silence came over me. 

“ Agatha,” I said at last, “ 1 came over to-day on pur- 
pose to see you. 1 want to ask you something, a favor so 
great my lips can hardly frame the words. ” 


COKALIE. 


203 


She looked at me. There was infinite wonder, infinite 
gentleness in her eyes. I took courage then and told my 
tale in burning words. I can not remember now, but I 
told her how I had loved her from the first moment 1 had 
ever seen her, and had resolved upon winning her, if she 
was to be won. 

Never mind what passed. I only know the sun never 
shone so brightly, the flowers were never one half so fair, 
the world so bright, no man ever one half so happy. 

For she — well, she had listened to me, and her sweet lips 
had quivered, her beautiful face had grown tender and 
soft; she laid her little white hands in mine and said she 
loved me. 

I have wondered since that the weight of my own hap- 
piness did not break my heart, the suspense had been so 
great. 

“ You love me? Say it again, Agatha. 1 can not be- 
lieve it. Oh, my darling, it seemed to me easier to reach 
the golden stars than to win you!” 

“ You did not try,” she said, with a smile half sweet, 
half divine. “ You always looked frightened at me.” 

“ So I was, but 1 shall grow bolder now. Such beauty, 
such purity, such goodness as yours would awe any one. I 
can hardly believe now in my own good fortune. Say it 
again, darling.” 

She raised her sweet face to mine. 

“ 1 love you,” she said, simply; and it seemed to me the 
words died away in the summer wind more sweetly than an 
echo from heaven would die. 

“ And you will be my wife? Agatha, promise me.” 

44 1 will be your wife,” she said; and then, to my think- 
ing, we went straight away to fairy-land. 

Ido not remember the sun setting, although it must 
have set; for when my senses returned tome, a servant was 
standing before us, saying that Lady Thesiger was afraid 
it was growing cold. 

There lay the dew shining on the trees and flowers, yet 
we had not even seen it fall. 


204 


CORA LIE. 


CHAPTER IX. 

I would not leave the manor house until I had seen Sir 
John. Agatha did not go back to the drawing-room with 
me. 

“ What will mamma think?” she said, in utter dismay. 
“ See how late it is; and the dew has fallen.” 

“ I will tell her why I detained you, Agatha. You are 
sure that 1 shall not wake up to-morrow and find all this 
is a dream?” 

“ 1 do not think so,” she replied; and then she would 
not stop for another word, and I went in to meet Lady 
Thesiger alone. 

She was surprised when I told her. No matter what 
Coralie said about maneuvering, if ever 1 saw real genuine 
surprise in any woman’s face, it was in Lady Thesiger’s 
this evening. 

“ You have asked Agatha to marry you!” she repeated, 
looking half bewildered; “ and pray. Sir Edgar, what did 
the child say?” 

“ She promised to marry me,” I replied, more boldly; 
“ that is, of course, if Sir John and you. Lady Thesiger, 
have no objection.” 

“Iam afraid that you have not taken that much into 
consideration. Asked the child to marry you! Why, Sir 
Edgar, how long have you been in love with her?” 

“ From the very first moment I ever saw her.” 

“ Why,” cried her ladyship, “ Sir John told me you 
were in love, and had promised to confide in him. ” 

Remembering what I had said to him, 1 explained to her 
that in speaking as I had done I referred entirely to 
Agatha. 

“ It is so utterly unexpected,” she said, “ that you must 
pardon my strange reception of your intelligence.” 

She sat quite silent for some minutes, then continued: 

“ It seems so strange for you to fall in love with Agatha. 
The dearest wish of Sir Barnard’s heart was to have her 
for a daughter-in-law.” 

A fierce spasm of jealousy almost robbed me of mv 
breath. 

“ Did she— did she — ” 


CORA LIE. 


205 


Then I could get no farther. 

“ No, Agatha did not like Miles, if that is what you 
mean.” 

“ Did Miles love her?” 

“ I can not tell — there was something, very mysterious 
about him. He looked to me like one who had a secret 
on his mind. I have often wondered what it could be. 
He was not a happy man of late years.” 

“ You have not told me yet, Lady Thesiger, if I have 
your good wishes. ” 

She held out her hand with a gracious, kindly smile. 

“ Shall 1 tell you the truth — no flattery, but just the 
simple truth? I would rather Agatha married you than 
any other man in the nation. She has not only my full 
consent, but I am pleased, proud, and happy.” 

“ And Sir John, shall 1 have his consent?” 

“ There is little doubt of it. 1 hear him now — he has 
just arrived, I suppose. You shall see him at once.” 

I rode away from Harden Manor that night a happy 
man. Sir John, like Lady Thesiger, gave his full, free, 
unhesitating consent. We had a long, confidential conver- 
sation. He told me how his affairs stood. He was a 
wealthy man, but his expenses were great. He told me 
frankly that he should not be able to give Agatha a large 
portion at her marriage, nor could he leave her anything 
considerable at his death. Harden Manor, with its rich 
revenues, was all entailed on his son. 

“ So that I am glad. Sir Edgar,” he said, “ she is likely 
to marry a rich man. She has been brought up in all 
luxury, and would never be able to bear privation. I shall 
feel satisfied of her future now.” 

Alas! so did I. I rode home through the sweet gather- 
ing gloom and the starlight one of the happiest men in 
England. I had won my love. She loved me whom 1 
loved best. 

There seemed to be nothing wanting then. Two short 
years ago 1 was poor, my daily life one of monotonous toil, 
without the least hope of relief. Now the silvery moon 
fell upon the woods and silvered the roof of the grand old 
mansion, and all this fair land over which 1 was riding was 
mine. 

Coralie was waiting for me. She affected to be just 
crossing the hall, but 1 knew that she had been waiting 


206 


CORA LIE. 


there to have the first word with me. She looked eagerly 
into my face. 

“ How long you have been away, Sir Edgar! Surely the 
starlight agrees with you. I have coflee ready for you in 
the drawing-room — you have dined, 1 suppose?” 

“ Yes, I dined at Harden Manor. 1 have been there all 
day.” 

A dark cloud came for a moment over her radiant face. 

“ All day,” she repeated. “ Ah, poor Miles! If he 
rode over in the morning, they were sure to make him stay 
till the evening, if they could.” 

“If Miles found the place as pleasant as I do, the 
length of his visits would not surprise me,” 1 said, laugh- 
ingly. “ I will run up to see Clare first, and then try 
your coffee, Coralie.” 

I longed to tell my good news to my sister. 

“ Clare,” I said, kneeling by her side, “ look at me. 
Do you know, can you guess, what news I have to tell 
you?” 

She raised her eyes to mine, she laid her dear hand on 
my brow. 

“ 1 can guess,” she said, quietly. “ You have told 
Agatha you love her, and have asked her to be your wife. 
Is that it?” 

“ Yes. She has promised, Clare. She loves me — she 
whom I have always looked up to as some queen so far 
above me.” 

“ Any good woman would love you, Edgar,” said my 
sister. She hesitated, then asked, slowly: “ Have you said 
anything to Coralie?” 

“ Certainly not. Why should 1?” 

A delicate color flushed my sister’s face. 

“ To tell you the truth,” she replied, “ I have fancied 
of late that Coralie likes you. Hay, I need not mince 
matters; I am quite sure she loves you.” 

“ She loves us both, because we are all in the world she 
has to love; but not in the way you mean, Clare.” 

But Clare shook her head doubtfully. 

“ 1 hope I may be mistaken; but, Edgar, 1 have a nerv- 
ous feeling about it, difficult to describe and hard to bear, 
as though evil would come to you through her. I can not 
tell you how the thought haunts and perplexes me.” 

I laughed, little dreaming how it would be. 


CORALIE. 


207 


“ Sheer nervous fancy, Clare. Take it at the very 
worst, that Coralie does like me, perhaps, a little too well, 
and is both piqued and angry at my engagement, in the 
name of common sense, 1 ask you, what possible harm can 
she do to me?” 

“ None that I can see; yet the dread lies heavy upon 
me, brother.” 

“ You will forget it all, darling, when you hear the 
chime of wedding-bells. Ah, Clare, if you could get bet- 
ter, I should not have a wish left ungratified!” 

Then, still smiling at Clare’s nervous fancy, 1 went into 
the drawing-room. Coralie was there awaiting me. The 
picture, in all its details, rises before me as vividly as 
though I had only seen it yesterday. 

Although the day had been warm, the evening was 
chilly, and a small fire burned brightly in the grate; the 
lamps were lighted, and gleamed like huge, soft, warm 
pearls; the air of the room was heavy with sweet and subtle 
perfume. I have seen no woman who could arrange 
flowers like Coralie. The way in which she gathered 
them, and placed each fragrant flower so that it could be 
most perfectly seen, was wonderful. Great masses of 
crimson against white, amber, and blue. She had the in- 
stinctive elegance of a true Parisienne. 

It struck me as I entered that I had never seen so many 
lovely flowers; the vases and the stands were all full. 
Coralie herself sat in a large velvet fauteuil, the rich color 
of which formed a magnificent background to her bright 
face and golden-brown hair. She was dressed with unusual 
elegance; a robe of Soft black crape fell in graceful folds 
around her. I never shall understand ladies’ dresses, but 
this was made so that the beautiful white neck and arms 
were bare. 

1 remember, too, that she had great sprays of heliotrope 
in the bodice of her dress and- in her hair. She looked 
more lovely, more seductive than any words of mine could 
describe, if I wrote for six month's. 

On the table by her side was a tray set with delicate 
china and silver, over which the fire-light played cheerily. 
It was a picture of luxurious home comfort. She looked 
up as I entered with a grave, sweet smile. 

“ Your coffee is ready, Sir Edgar.” 


208 


CORALIE. 


There was my favorite chair drawn up to the table. As 
I sat down, I said aloud: 

“ This is comfortable. ” 

Her smile brightened and deepened. 

“ You are like Miles, Sir Edgar. No matter where he 
went, he always said coming home was the most pleasant 
part of the day.” 

Then with her white jeweled hand she poured out my 
coffee, and certainly the aromatic fragrance was very 
pleasant. 

“ You must be like Miles in something else,” she said. 
“ He always declared that I made better coffee than any 
one else — better than he tasted in all his travels. Do you 
not think the same?” And she looked at me as anxiously 
as though the making of coffee to please me were the chief 
aim of life. 

“ Was Sir John at home?” she asked, after a few min- 
utes. 

Then 1 had to describe my day, to give her a history of 
the coming fancy fair, in which she affected great interest. 

“ 1 should like to go very much,” she said. “ I have 
read in fashionable novels of fancy fairs, but I have never 
seen one. Are you going, Sir Edgar?” 

“ Lady Thesiger has asked my assistance, and I have 
promised it. We shall make up a party. If you wish to 
go, Coralie, you, shall.” 

She thanked me, and when I had finished my coffee, 
rang the bell and ordered it to be cleared away. 

“Iam going to sing to you,” she said. “ I know you 
are tired. Throw your head back, shut your eyes, and 
listen. Do not speak, because 1 am going to weave a 
charm for you.” 

I declare before Heaven that when I remember the 
magic of that charm my heart beats even now with fear! 

Are you keenly sensitive to music, reader? If so, you 
will understand. 1 could neither sing nor play, but I 
loved music with a perfect passion. There was not a 
nerve or pulse in my body, not a thrill in my heart, that 
did not answer it. Listening to beautiful music, sweet, 
soothing, and sad, this world fell from me. I was in an 
ideal life, with vague, glorious fancies floating round me, 
beautiful, lofty dreams filling my whole soul. 

In this higher world Coralie’s music wrapped me; then 


CORA LIE. 


309 


I came to myself with a sadden start, for there was Coralie 
half kneeling by my side, covering my hand with kisses 
and tears. 


CHAPTER X. 

“ Coralie !” I cried, in surprise. “ What is the mat- 
ter? What are you doing?” 

She looked up at me, the fire of her eyes flashing through 
the mist of tears. 

“ Don’t scold me, Edgar; it is the fault of the music. 
It sent me here to tell you how dearly I love you, and to 
ask from you one kind word.” 

I was terribly embarrassed. Could it be possible this 
beautiful woman was confessing her love for me? 

“ Do not judge me hastily,” she said. “I am not like 
the fair, cold girls of this northern clime. My father had 
Spanish blood in his veins, and some of it flows in mine. 
My music went deep into my heart, and my heart cried 
aloud for one kind word from you.” 

“ Am I not always kind, Coralie?” 

“ Ah, yes, with that cold, English kindness which kills 
even sooner than your keen frost and biting winds. I want 
something more than this cruel kindness. Oh, cousin, can 
you not see 1 love you? I love you — ah. Heaven, how 
dearly! — and I want your love in return.” 

Believe me, reader, I was speechless. I would fain have 
raised her, have told her, in short, sharp words that what 
she was saying branded her as unmaidenly and indiscreet; 
but I was powerless either to move or to speak. 

“ I loved you,” she said, “ the first moment 1 saw you. 
You are not like other men. Sir Edgar. You are so 
generous, so simply truthful, so noble. No wonder that 1 
love you; no wonder that 1 look proud of my love. Ah, 
me! ah, me! would that I knew how to tell you! Give 
me your love; you shall never repent it. I will make 
home heaven for you. Men say that I have beauty and 
talent. Ah, me! I would use every gift I have for you; 
help you to win high honors that cold, unambitious natures 
never dream of. Ah, love me, love me, cousin! You will 
find no one else so true.” 

Her face paled with passion; her glorious eyes, dim with 
tears, were raised to mine. 


210 


CORALIE. 


“ Forgive me that I have spoken first. I should have 
died with my love. I know that other women in my place 
would have done so. I could not; life is strong within me. 
I could not die here, tortured to death by inches, without 
telling you. Ah, say to me that 1 shall not die!” 

Weak words o£ mine can not tell the passionate music of 
her voice, the passionate beauty of her face. 

“ You do not speak to me; you can not forgive me that 
I have not borne my love and sorrow in silence until it 
killed me. Ah, see what love must mine be to make me 
so speak to you, to make me kneel to you, asking for my 
life, my life!” and as she uttered the words her head 
dropped on my arm, and her wealth of golden-brown hair 
fell over me. 

God knows 1 would have given worlds to have rushed 
away. Never was man more unwillingly drawn into an 
embarrassing situation. And that very day Agatha had 
promised to be my wife. It was high time 1 said some- 
thing. Gently as my patience and embarrassment would 
allow me, 1 raised the girl. 

“ Coralie,” I said, gravely, “ you are not yourself, 1 am 
sure.” 

“It is for my life,” she said. “I am asking for my 
life!” 

“ You are easily excited and impulsive,” I said; “ that 
music has bewildered you. I do love you, Coralie; so does 
Clare. You are our kinswoman and our charge; how can 
we help loving you?” 

“Ah, me!” she moaned,“you will not understand; it 
is not that love, Edgar. I want to pass my life by your 
side. I want your joys to be mine— your sorrows to be 
mine, darling; I want to share your interests. Will you 
not understand?” 

“ I do understand, Coralie. All the love of my heart is 
given — gone from me. Only this day I asked Miss Thesiger 
to be my wife, and she consented. All my love, my faith, 
my loyalty is hers.” 

I shall never forget how that fair woman rose and looked 
at me. The love-light and the mist of tears died from her 
eyes. All the lovely color faded from her face. 

“You have slain me; you have given me my death- 
blow.” 

“ Nay, Coralie, you are too sensible and brave,” 


CORA LIE. 


211 


She waved her hand with a gesture commanding silence. 

“ Ho not seek to comfort me,” she said; “ you can not. 
I have humiliated myself in vain. 1 have shown the depth 
of my heart, the very secrets of my soul, only that you 
may laugh at me with your fair-faced Agatha.” 

“ Hush, Coralie; you have no right to say such things; 
what you have j ust said will never pass my lips. I shall 
not even think of it. You can not suspect me of the 
meanness to talk to Miss Thesiger of anything of the 
kind.” 

She looked at me with a dazed face, as though she could 
barely grasp my meaning. 

“ Tell me it again,” she said. “ I can not believe it.” 

“Listen, Coralie: I love Agatha Thesiger with all my 
heart, and hope very soon to make her my wife. Llove 
her so dearly that I have no room in my heart for even a 
thought of any other woman.” 

Her face grew ghastly in its pallor. 

“ That is sufficient,” she said; “ now 1 understand/-’ 

“We will both forget what has been said to-night, 
Coralie, we will never think of it, but for the future be 
good cousins and good friends.” 

“ No,” she said, proudly, “ there can be no friendship 
between us.” 

“ You will think better of it; believe me, you have no 
truer friends than Clare and myself.” 

“ If I ask for bread and you give me a stone, is that 
anything to make me grateful? But 1 declare to you. Sir 
Edgar Trevelyan, that you have slain me, you have slain 
the womanhood in me to-night by the most cruel blow.” 

She looked so wild, so white, so despairing, I went up 
to her. 

“ Coralie,” 1 said, “ forget all this nonsense and be your 
own bright self again.” 

“ My own bright self will never live again; a man's 
scorn has killed me.” 

Suddenly, before 1 knew what she was doing, she had 
flung herself in a fearful passion of tears in my arms. She 
was sobbing with her face close to mine and her hot hands 
clinging to me. 

“ With it all, Edgar, she does not love you; she loved 
Miles; she loves Crown Anstey, and not you. Forget her, 
dear; give her up. 1 love you. She is cold, and formal. 


212 


CORALIE. 


and prudish; she is not capable of loving you as 1 do. She 
loves your fortune, not you, and I — oh, I would die if you 
bid me. Give her up, Edgar, and love me.” 

When the passionate outburst of tears had had full 
vent, I unclasped her arms and placed her in a chair. 

“ Let us talk reasonably, Coralie. You ask me what is 
impossible. I shall never, with life, give up my engage- 
ment to Miss Thesiger.” 

A strange, bitter smile parted her white lips. I knew 
afterward what that meant. 

“ It is better to speak plainly,” I continued, “ in a case 
like this; better for both. Listen to me, and believe, 
Coralie, that even had I never seen Miss Thesiger, I — for- 
give me, but it is the truth — I should never have loved 
you with more than a cousin’s love; my friendship, my 
esteem, my care are all yours; more I can never give you. ” 

Pray God I may never see another woman as I saw her 
then. She rose with her white face and glittering eyes. 
Then came to mind that line: 

“ Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” 

“You throw the love 1 have offered you back in my 
face, Sir Edgar?” 

“ No, dear; 1 lay it kindly and gratefully in your hands, 
to make the joy and happiness of some good man’s life. ” 

“ You distinctly tell me that you never did — never could 
love me?” 

“ I love you as my cousin, Coralie — not in any other 
way.” 

“You would never, never, under any circumstances, 
make me your wife?” 

“ Why do you pain me so, Coralie?” 

“ 1 want a plain answer — you would never marry me? 
Say ‘ yes 9 or ‘ no . 9 ” 

“ No — since you force me into ungracious speech.” 

“Thank you,” she said, bitterly; “1 am answered — 
there can be no mistake. Sir Edgar, you speak your mind 
with honorable frankness. 1 have given you every chance 
to correct yourself, should you be mistaken. 1 am per- 
haps more richly endowed than you think for. Would my 
dowry make any difference?” 

“No,” I replied, sternly; “ and, .Coralie, pray pardon 
me; it is high time that this should end.” 


CORALIE. 213 

“ It shall end at once,” she replied. “ It is to be war 
between us. Sir Edgar — war to the knife.” 

“ There is no need for war,” 1 said, wearily. “ Let us 
forget all about it. There will be no need for you to do 
anything romantic, Coralie. Stay on at Crown Anstey, 
and make yourself happy with Clare.” 

“ Yes,” she replied, with that strange smile, “ I shall 
remain at Crown Anstey — I have no thought of going 
away.” 

She turned as though she would quit the room. I went 
up to her. 

“ Good-night, Coralie. Shake hands, and let us part 
friends.” 

“ When I touch your hand again. Sir Edgar, it will be 
under very different circumstances. Good-night.” 

She swept from the room with the dignity of an outraged 
queen, leaving me unhappy, bewildered, and anxious. 

1 had the most chivalrous love and devotion for all 
womankind, and I must confess to feeling most dreadfully 
shocked. It seemed almost unheard of. 

Then 1 tried to forget it — the passionate words, the pale, 
tearful beauty of that wonderful face. Strange that 
Clare's conviction should so soon be realized. What of 
that nervous conviction she had that evil would come of 
this fair woman’s love? What if that were realized too? 

I sat late that night, dreaming ’not only of the pure, 
sweet girl I had won, but of the woman whose burning 
tears had fallen on my hands. What harm could she do if 
she tried? What did she mean by being richly dowered? 
Had she any fortune that I did not know of? Her words 
were mysterious. Strange to say, the same nervous fore- 
bodings" that had seized Clare seized me. 

Evil would come of it; how or why. I could not imagine, 
but it would come. 1 felt it gathering round me; then I 
laughed at myself, at my own foolish fancy. 

Yet the same fancy had shaken me so that when I went 
into Clare’s room to say “ Good-night,” she asked me if I 
were ill, and would not be satisfied until I laughingly told 
her my happiness had been tQo much for me. 

I felt shy as a girl the next morning at the thought of 
coming down-stairs to meet mademoiselle. Nor was I 
quite devoid of some little fear. Would she be sorrowful. 


214 


CORALIE. 


resigned, pathetic, angry, or what? - It was impossible to 
tell. «« 

Imagine my surprise on opening the breakfast-room door 
to find her already at the table, looking blooming and 
beautiful as a June rose. She greeted me gayly with 
bright smiles and bright words. I might have thought all 
the passion, the sorrow, and despair of last night a dream. 

Only too happy to imitate her, 1 began to talk of a score 
of indifferent matters. About everything she had some 
piquant, bright words to say. By the time breakfast was 
ended I had really begun to think I must have dreamed 
the most unpleasant scene. 

Yet I thought to myself that I must be guarded. I 
must continue to be kind to her because she had no other 
friends, but all kindness shown to her must be of the true, 
cousinly type. 

This morning, instead of lingering with her while she 
went through the conservatories, as had been my idle 
fashion, I went at once into Clare’s room. Coralie noticed 
the change, for her face grew pale as 1 quitted the room. 

Some weeks passed without anything happening. I 
went over to Harden Manor every day. The sun never set 
without my seeing Agatha, and every day I loved her more 
and more. 

She was so simple, so tender, so true; now that she had 
promised to be my wife, there was no idle coquetry about 
her, no affectation of shyness. She was simply perfect, 
and it seemed to me that by some wonderful miracle I had 
reached the golden land at last. 

Then 1 began to agitate for an early marriage. Why 
wait? Lady Thesiger told me laughingly that there was 
much to do at Crown Anstey before 1 could take a wife 
home. 

“ Remember,” she said, “ that before your sister came, 
there had been no ladies at the Hall for some years. The 
late Lady Trevelyan died sixteen years ago.” 

1 saw that she had completely forgotten the existence of 
mademoiselle, and did not care to remind her of it. 

“You will want to refurnish a suite of rooms for 
Agatha,” she continued; “ and there will really be so 
much to do that if we say Christmas for the wedding, that 
will be quite soon enough.” 

“ It seems like an eternity!” I said, discontentedly. 


COKALIE. 


215 


“It is the most picturesque season of the year for a 
wedding,” said Lady Thesiger. “I like the holly and 
evergreens even better than summer flowers.” 

So it was settled. Clare agreed with Lady Thesiger that 
Crown Anstey required preparation for a bride. 

“ Those reception-rooms want refurnishing,” said my 
sister. “ Of course, after your marriage you will give 
parties and balls. You will have to show hospitality to all 
the county, Edgar. ” 

Half to my consternation, she said this before Coralie. 
I looked at her hastily, wondering how she would take it. 
Her beautiful face was quite calm, and wore an expression 
of pleased interest. 

“ Ho you agree with me, Coralie?” asked my unsuspect- 
ing sister. 

“ Certainly; there is no position in the county equal to 
that of Lady Trevelyan of Crown Anstey.” 

“ How strange it is, Edgar, that you should be married, 
and your wife Lady Trevelyan! Sometimes it seems to me 
all a dream.” 

“ Dreams come and go so lightly,” said Coralie, with 
that smile which always made me slightly afraid. 

The remainder of that day we spent in making out a 
long list of all things needful. Coralie’s taste was para- 
mount. She decided upon little matters of elegance we 
never even thought of. It was she who strongly advised 
me to send to London for Mr. Dickson, the well-known 
decorator. 

“ He will arrange a suite of rooms so perfectly that you 
will hardly know them,” she said. 

So it was decided. Mr. Dickson came, and when he 
found there was to be no limit either to time, expense, 
money, or anything else, he promised me something that 
should make Crown Anstey famous. 

All things went on perfectly. The magnificent prepara- 
tions making for my darling occupied my time most hap- 
pily. It was now almost the end of November, and our 
marriage was to take place on the 2fith of December. Mr. 
Dickson and his army of workmen had taken their depart- 
ure, and the rooms prepared for my wife were beyond all 
praise. 

The boudoir was hung in blue and silver; it was a per- 
fect little fairy-land; nothing was wanting to make it a 


216 


COKALI E. 


nest of luxury. The boudoir opened into a pretty little 
library, where all the books that 1 thought would please 
Agatha were arranged. There was a dressing-room, a 
bath-room, and a sleeping-room, all cn suite, Mr. Dick- 
son had improvised a pretty flight of stairs leading into a 
small conservatory, and that opened into the garden. 

When the pictures, the flowers, the statues, the rich 
hangings, and the graceful ornaments were all arranged, I 
was more pleased than I had been for some time. Lady 
Thesiger came over to look at them, but my darling was 
not to see them until they were her own. 

There was an unpleasant duty to perform: What was to 
be done with Coralie? Knowing Lady Thesiger’s opinion 
of her, I felt sure she would never allow her daughter to 
live in the same house. What was to be done with her? 
Where was she to go? I did not know in the least what to 
suggest. I was perfectly willing to offer her a very hand- 
some allowance, knowing that, as Sir Barnard’s charge, 
she had some claim on me. 

I might have spared myself all the trouble of thinking 
and deciding. One morning Mrs. Newsham, a pretty 
young matron, very popular m our neighborhood, paid us 
a visit. 

Coralie, as usual, received her, and did the honors of the 
house. A very beautiful fountain had just been placed in 
the lawn, and we went to look at it. i had left' the two 
ladies looking over the basin of the fountain while I raised 
the branches of a rare and valuable plant. 

Stooping down, 1 did not hear the commencement of 
the conversation. When my attention was attracted, Mrs. 
Newsham was concluding a sentence with these words: 

“ If ever you leave Crown Anstey.” 

I saw Coralie d’Aubergne look up at her with a quiet 
smile. 

“ I shall never leave Crown Anstey,” she said, “ under 
any possible circumstances.” 

Mrs. Newsham laughed. 

“ You may be married, or Lady Trevelyan may not like 
the place, and wish it closed— a thousand things may hap- 
pen to prevent you remaining here always . 99 

But I saw Coralie d’Aubergne shake her head, while she * 
replied, calmly: 


CORA LIE. 2{7 

“ No, Mrs. Newsham, I shall never leave Crown An- 
stey.” 

I can not tell how the words impressed me; 1 found my- 
self repeating them over and over again — ‘‘I shall never 
leave Crown Anstey.” 

Yet she must have known that when my young wife 
came home. Crown Anstey would be no place for her. 

Was there any meaning in the words she repeated so 
often, or did she say them merely with an idea of comfort- 
ing herself? * 

Ilj was that very evening that I sat by myself in the 
library arranging some papers, and thinking at the same 
time what I must say to Coralie, and how I must say it, 
when the door suddenly opened, and she entered. 

1 looked at her surprised, for she did not often intrude 
when I was alone and occupied. She was very pale; with 
quiet determination on her beautiful face, she walked up to 
me, and leaned her arm on the back of my chair. 

“ So, cousin,” she said, “ this marriage is going on?” 

“ Certainly, Coralie. I pray God nothing may prevent 
it.” 

“You would .lose your reason, I suppose, if you lost 
Agatha?” 

“ I can not tell. 1 only know that, no matter how long 
I lived, life would have no further charm for me.” 

She bent her head caressingly over me; her perfumed 
hair touched my. face. 

“ Edgar,” she whispered, “ once more I lose sight of 
my woman’s pride; once more I come to you and ask you 
—ah! do not turn from me— I ask you to give up Agatha, 
and—” 

She paused, for very shame, I hope. 

“Give up Agatha and marry you, you would say, 
Coralie?” 

“ Ah, dear, I love you so! l T ou would never repent it. 
I would make you happy as a crowned king.” 

I stopped her. 

“ Say no more, Coralie! I am grieved and shocked that 
you should renew the subject. 1 told you before I should 
never love any woman save Agatha Thesiger, were 1 to live 
forever.” 

“ Nothing will ever induce you to change your mind? 
she asked, slowly. 


Sl8 


CORALIE. 


No; nothing in the wide world.” 

She paused for a few minutes, then she quietly lifted her 
arm from the chair. 

“ Has it ever struck you,” she said, “ it may be in my 
power to do you deadly mischief?” 

“ I never thought you capable of such a thing, nor do I 
believe that it is in your power.” 

“ It is,” she said; “ }^ou and your sister are both in my 
power. If you are a wise man, you will take my terms 
and save yourself while there is time. Of course, if I were 
Lady Trevelyan, my interests would be yours; then, if 1 
knew anything against your welfare, I should keep the 
secret faithfully — ah! a thousand times more faithfully 
than if it concerned my own life.” 

She looked earnestly at me. 

“You hold no secrets of mine, Coralie; 1 have no 
secrets. Thank God, my life is clear and open — a book any 
one may read. Supposing 1 had a secret, I should not 
purchase the keeping of it by any such compromise as you 
suggest. I detest all mysteries, Coralie— all underhand 
doings, all deceit. Speak out and tell me, Coralie, what 
you mean.” 

“ 1 shall speak out when the time comes. Once more. 
Cousin Edgar, be reasonable; save yourself — save me.” 

She withdrew some steps from me, and looked at me 
with her whole soul in her eyes. 

“ I will not hear another word, Coralie. I do not wish 
to offend you, or to speak harshly to you; but this I do 
say — if ever you mention this, to me, hateful subject, I 
will never voluntarily address you again, never while I 
live.” 

She made no answer. She turned, with a dignified gest- 
ure, and quitted the room. 

I never gave one serious thought to her threats, looking 
upon them as the angry words of an angry woman. They 
did not even remain upon my mind or disturb my rest. 


CHAPTER NI. 

The day following. Lady Thesiger had arranged to come 
to Crown Anstey with Agatha, for the purpose of choosing 
from some very choice engravings that had been sent to 
me from London. I asked Sir John to accompany them 


CORALIE. 


219 


and stay to lunch. It was always a red-letter day for me 
when my darling came to my home, and 1 remember this 
oue — a h> me! — so well. It was fine, clear, and frosty; the 
sky was blue; the sun shone with that clear gold gleam it 
has in winter; the hoar-frost sparkled on the leafless trees 
and hedges; the ground was hard, and seemed to ring be- 
neath one’s feet. 

“ A bright, clear day,” said Coralie, as we sat at break- 
fast together. 

“ Yes,” I replied. “ Coralie, will you see that a good 
luncheon is served to-day? Sir John and Lady Thesiger 
are coming — Miss Thesiger, too — and they will remain for 
lunch.” 

Her face cleared and brightened. 

“ Coming to-day, are they? I am very glad.” 

I looked upon this as an amiable wish to atone for the 
unpleasantness of last night, and answered her in the same 
good spirit. 

I am half ashamed to confess that when Agatha was 
coming I seldom did anything but stand, watch in hand, 
somewhere near the entrance gates. That I did to-day, 
and was soon rewarded by seeing the Harden carriage. 

Ah, me! will the memory of that day ever die with me? 
My darling came, and seemed to me more beautiful than 
ever. Her sweet, frank eyes looked into mine, her pure, 
beautiful face had a delicate flush of delight, and I — God 
help me! — forgot everything while by her side. 

We were all in the library. How 1 thanked God after- 
ward that Clare had not felt well enough to have the en- 
gravings carried to her room, as 1 proposed! We sat 
round the large center-table on which the folios lay open. 
Sir John, who took great delight in such things, explaining 
to Lady- Thesiger. I was showing Agatha those I liked 
best, when, quite unexpectedly, Coralie entered the room. 

The moment I saw her face 1 knew that she meant mis- 
chief. Surely, woman’s face never had so hard, so wicked 
a look before. 

Sir John rose and bowed. Lady Thesiger looked, as she 
always did in the presence of mademoiselle, constrained 
and annoyed. Agatha’s look was one of sheer surprise, 
for Coralie walked up to the table. 

“ Choosing engravings, Miss Thesiger?” she said, with 
an easy smile. “ 1 must ask you to give me your atten- 


22 0 


CORALIE. 


tion for a short time. Perhaps you will not think the en- 
gravings of much importance after that. ” 

She declined the chair Sir John placed for her with the 
hauteur of a grand duchess. As she stood there, calmly 
surveying us, she looked the most beautiful yet the most 
determined of women. 

“ May I ask,” she said, “ the exact date fixed for the 
marriage?” 

Sir John answered her: 

“ The 2Gth of December, mademoiselle.” 

“May I ask,” she said, “ what Sir Edgar has thought 
of doing for me? Doubtless Lady Thesiger will have ad- 
vised him. This has been my home for many years, and 
is my only home now. Has the question been considered? 
In the event of Sir Edgar bringing a young wife here, what 
is to become of me?” 

There was a mocking smile on her beautiful face, her 
dark eyes flashed from one to the other of us; we felt un- 
comfortable. She had just hit upon the weak point that 
disturbed us all, the one cloud in the clear sky. 

As no one else, seemed inclined to speak, I answered : 

“ Everything will be done for your comfort, Coralie, 
you may be sure of that, for Sir Barnard’s sake.” 

“ And not for my own?” she said. “ What is your idea 
of comfort. Sir Edgar? Do you propose offering me a 
little cottage, and a few pounds per week? That would 
not content me.” 

She looked so imperial, so beautiful, that I wondered in- 
voluntarily what would content her, she who might have 
anything. 

“ Whatever you yourself think right, Coralie, you shall 
have . 9 9 

1 saw a strong disapproval in Lady Thesiger’s face, and 
Coralie’s quick eyes, following mine, read the same. 

“ Ah!” she said, hastily, “ Lady Thesiger does not ap- 
prove of carte blanche to ambitious cousins.” 

Lady Thesiger really restrained herself; she was tempted 
to speak — I saw that — but refrained. 

“ The best plan,” said Sir John, calmly, “ would be for 
Mademoiselle d’Aubergne to say what she herself wishes.” 

“ I will tell you,” she replied, “ what I claim.” 

Then, as we looked up at her in wonder, she continued, 
with bland calmness: 


CORALIE. 


221 


“ I claim as my own and right, on the part of my infant 
son, the whole of the estate and revenues of Crown Anstey. 
I claim as widow of the late Miles Trevelyan, Esq., my 
share of all due to me at his death/ ’ 

A thunder-bolt falling in our midst would not have 
alarmed us as those words did. Sir John looked sternl v at 
her. 

“ In the name of Heaven, what do you mean?” 

“ Just what 1 say. Sir John. I was the wife, and am 
now the widow,’ of the late Miles Trevelyan, Esq.” 

“ But that is monstrous!” he cried. “ Miles was never 
married.” 

“ Miles was married to me. Sir John.” 

“ But we must have proof; your word goes for nothing. 
There must be indisputable proof of suoh an assertion.” 

She smiled with quiet superiority. 

“ Knowing with whom 1 have to contend, it is not prob- 
able that I should assert anything false. I am prepared 
to prove everything I say.” 

My darling’s face grew white as death. I was bewiT- 
dered. If this were true — oh, my God! if it were true — 
fortune, love, and everything else was lost. 

“ Where were you married?” asked Sir John. 

' “ At Edgeton — St. Helen’s, Edgeton. The Reverend 
Henry Morton married us, and the two witnesses were Sara 
Smith, who was my maid, and Arthur Ireton, who was 
head gamekeeper here at Crown Anstey.” 

It was all so quickly told, and so seemingly correct, we 
looked at one another in amaze. 

“ We must examine into it,” said Sir John, “ before go- 
ing any further.” 

“ That will be best,” she replied, composedly. “ I had 
better explain that Miles, poor fellow, fell in love with me 
the first time he saw me. Sir Barnard would not hear of 
such a thing. He told Miles that if he persisted in marry- 
ing me he would curse him. Perhaps he had his own rea- 
sons for not liking me. His son tried to obey him, but I 
am proud to say the love Miles had for me was far stronger 
than fear of his father. Still, for pecuniary reasons, he 
did not care to offend him, so we were married privately 
the second year of my stay at Crown Anstey.” 

She turned to Lady Thesiger with a mocking smile. 

“ I know perfectly well,” she said, “ why your ladyship 


222 


COKALIE. 


has never liked me. You met me walking one evening 
with Miles Trevelyan in the Anstey Woods; yon saw him 
kiss me. You know now that he was my husband, and 
had a right to kiss me if he chose. ” 

Lady Thesiger bowed very stiffly. 

“Two years after our marriage,” Coralie continued, 
“ my little son, called Rupert, after the Crusader Trevel- 
yan, was born. Under the pretense of visiting some of 
my relations, 1 went to Lincoln. In the registry of the 
church of St. Morton Friars you will find the proper 
attestation of my son's birth.” 

“ Where is that 6on?” asked Sir John, incredulously. 

“ At Lincoln. I can send for him. You can go there 
and see him; he is under the care of Sarah Smith, my 
nurse. He is living and well, and he, not Mr. Edgar, is 
the heir of Crown Anstey.” 

“ But why,” asked Sir John, incredulously, “ why have 
you never told this story before? It seems incredible that 
you should have waited until now.” 

• “I have had my own reasons,” she replied. “ I Waited 
first to see what Sir Edgar would be like; then, when 1 
saw him — 1 — I need not be ashamed to own it, even before 
Miss Thesiger — I liked him, and if he had been reasonable 
I should never have told my story at all.” 

“That is,” said Sir John, with supreme disgust, “if 
Edgar had been duped by you, and had married you, you 
would have defrauded your son of his rights?” 

“ Yes,” she replied, with a smile; “ it is Crown Anstey 
I love, and 1 would rather be the wife than the mother of 
the master of Crown Anstey.” 

“ You are a wicked woman,” he said, sternly. 

“ I am a successful one,” she retorted. “ Pray, Sir 
John, examine all these proofs at your earliest convenience; 
1 am anxious to take my place as mistress of my own 
house; I am anxious to have my child here in his own 
home.” 

We all rose; no words can express my emotions. It was 
not the fortune, God knows — not the fortune; but I knew 
when 1 lost that, I lost Agatha. 

I felt my face growing white as death itself, and my 
hands trembled. 

“ One moment,” I said. “ A year ago the doctor told 
me if my sister kept up her strength, and had nothing to 


CORALIE. 


22 3 


make her either anxious nor unhappy, she would in all 
probability recover. Now, whether this story be true or 
false, I pray you all, for God's sake, keep it from her!" 

“ I shall not mention it," said Coralie. 

“ Go not despair, Edgar," said Sir John. “ I do not 
believe — I never shall." 

“ 1 wrote to London last night," continued Coralie, 
“ for Mr. Dempster, who was Sir Barnard's lawyer on one 
or two occasions. You, of course, Mr. Edgar Trevelyan, 
will retain the services of the family solicitors." 

“ 1 shall need no solicitors if your story be true. I shall 
not seek to defraud Miles's son of his birthright; I shall 
yield it to him." 

“ You will find it true in every particular," she said; 
“ and remember always that it is your own fault I have 
told it." 

With that parting shot she quitted the room. 

“ My poor boy," said Sir John, “ this is a terrible blow 
for you." 

“ I am afraid," said Lady Thesiger, “ that this abom- 
inable woman has spoken the truth. 1 always thought 
poor Miles had something on his mind— some secret. 1 
told him so one day, and he did not deny it." 

My darling came up to me with her sweet, pale face and 
outstretched hands. 

“ Never mind, Edgar," she said. “ If you lose Crown 
Anstey, I will try to love you all the more to make up for 
it." 

What could I do but bless her and thank her? Yet I 
knew — God help me! — I knew in losing my fortune 1 lost 
her! 


CHAPTER 'XII. 

The little party that had so gayly assembled in the old 
library broke up in the deepest gloom. Sir John was the 
only one who seemed at all incredulous. 

“Rely upon it," he said, “ that, after all, it is some 
trick of the French woman's." 

But Lady Thesiger had no such hope. 

“ 1 felt sure there was something wrong with Miles," 
she said. “ He was not happy; he had married in haste 
and repented at leisure." 


224 


CORA LIE. 


For my own part, 1 had no hope. Remembering the 
subtle, seductive beauty of the woman, 1 could well im- 
agine Miles being led, even against himself, into a mar- 
riage or anything else. 

"When they were gone, 1 went back to the library. I 
wanted to face this terrible blow alone, to realize the possi- 
bility that instead of being Sir Edgar Trevelyan, of Crown 
Anstey, wealthy, honored, and powerful, I was Edgar 
Trevelyan, poor, homeless, and penniless. 

Could it be possible that after this life of ease, luxury, 
and happiness, 1 was to fall back into the old position — 
hard, monotonous labor, with eighty pounds per annum? 

It seemed too hard. Do not think any the worse of me, 
reader, if 1 own that the tears came into my eyes. It was 
bitterly hard. 

Without warning Coralie entered the room. It must 
have been a triumph to her to see the tears in my eyes. 
She stood at some little distance from me. 

“ Edgar, ” she asked, “ do you hate me?” 

“No; lam too just to hate you for claiming what is 
your own. You ought to have told me before, Coralie. 
It has been most cruel to let me live in this delusive 
dream. If you had told me that night when 1 came here 
first, it would have been a momentary disappointment, but 
I should have gone back to my work none the worse for 
it.” 

“ I might have done it, but 1 saw in this, my secret 
power, the means of winning you. Edgar, it is not too late 
even now. Make me mistress of Crown Anstey, and I will 
find the means of restoring your lost position to you.” 

1 turned from her in unutterable loathing. She was so 
lost to all womanly honor and delicacy, my whole soul re- 
volted against her. 

“ Not another word, Coralie. 1 would not take Crown 
Anstey from you if the alternative were death!” 

“ That is vory decisive,” she replied, with the mocking 
smile I dreaded. “We shall see.” 

“ You will keep your word to me?” I cried, hastily. 
“ You will say nothing to Clare? She will soon be well. 
1 could not bear to have any obstacles thrown in the way 
of her recovery. When I leave her, my friends will make 
some arrangements to spare her the shock of knowing why 
— at least, for a time.” 


CORA LIE. 


225 


“ I shall respect your wishes, Edgar. I have no desire 
to hurt your sister. She is quite safe, so far as I am con- 
cerned.^ 

It may be imagined that 1 did not sleep very well that 
night. Early on the following morning Sir John rode 
over. 

“The sooner we look into this affair, the better,” he 
said. “ We will ride over to Edgeton to-day, and examine 
the church register.” 

We did so. Alas! there was no mistake; the marriage 
had been celebrated on the 14th of J une. The two wit- 
nesses, as she said, were Sarah Smith and Arthur Ireton. 
The marriage service had been performed by the Reverend 
Henry Morton. 

The. entry was perfectly regular, no flaw in it. Sir 
John’s face fell as he read it. 

“ Now,” he said, “ the marriage laws in England are 
very strict; there is no evading them. If this marriage is 
perfectly legal, we shall find an entry of it in the registrar’s 
books. We must pay for a copy of the certificate.” 

We went to the registrar’s office. There, sure enough, 
was the entry, all perfectly legal and straightforward. 

“ Now,” said Sir John, “ before we rest let us find out 
the Reverend Henry Morton, and see what he knows about 
it.” 

That involved a journey to Leamington, where he was 
then residing. We found him without any difficulty. He 
remembered the marriage, and had no hesitation in answer- 
ing any questions about it. He knew Miles Trevelyan, 
and had remonstrated with him over the marriage. But 
what could he do? Miles was of full age, and told him 
frankly that if he refused to marry him, some one else 
would. 

“ I have been ill and occupied,” he said, “and have 
heard nothing of the Trevelyans since I left Edgeton. 
However, if my evidence and solemn assurance are of any 
service, you have them. They were properly and legally 
married; nothing in the world can upset that fact.” 

“ So it seems,” said Sir John, with a deep sigh. “ Ed- 
gar, you have losT; Crown Anstey.” 

The next day I wrote to Moreland & Paine, asking one 
or both to come over at once. Mr. Paine arrived the same 
evening, and looked very grave when he was in full pos- 


226 


CORALIE. 


session of the case. He had a long interview with Mrs. 
Trevelyan, as we all called her now, also with her solicitor, 
Mr. Dempster. Then he sought me. 

“ This is a bad business, Mr. Trevelyan,” he said; and 
by his ceasing to use the title, I knew he had given up all 
hope of my cause. “ Of course,” he continued, “ you can 
go to law if you like, but I tell you quite honestly you have 
no chance. The evidence is clear and without a flaw; 
nothing can shake it. If you have a lawsuit, you will lose 
it, and probably have to pay all costs.” 

1 told him that I had no such intention, that if the estate 
were not legally mine, I had no wish to claim it. 

“ It was a very sad thing for you, Mr. Trevelyan. I am 
heartily grieved for you.” 

“ I must bear it like a man. 1 am not the first who has 
lost a fortune.” 

But Sir John would not hear of my final arrangements 
until we had been to Lincoln and had seen the child. 

“No one knows the depth of those French women,” he 
said. “ It is possible there may be no child. Let us take 
her by surprise this very day, and ask her to accompany 
us to the house where the nurse lives.” 

Both lawyers applauded the idea. 

“ If there be any imposture, we are sure to find it out,” 
they said. 

Without a minute’s loss of time Mrs. Trevelyan was 
asked to join us in the library. She complied at once. 

“ We want you to go with us to Lincoln to show us the 
child,” said Sir John, abruptly. 

She consented at once so readily that 1 felt certain that 
our quest was useless. We started in an hour’s time, my 
poor Clare being led to believe that we had gone to Harden 
on a visit. 

We reached Lincoln about six o’clock at night. While 
we stood in the station waiting for a cab, Mr. Paine turned 
suddenly to Coralie. 

“ What is the address?” he asked. 

Again there was not a moment’s hesitation. 

“No. 6 Lime Cottages, Berkdale Load,” she replied; 
and Jfcst as a somewhat tired horse could take us we went 
there. 

We reached the place at last; a row of pretty cottages 
that in summer must have been sheltered by the lime- 


CORALIE. 


227 


trees, and the door of No. 6 was quickly opened to us — 
opened by a woman with a pleasant face, who looked 
exceedingly astonished at seeing us. Coralie came for- 
ward. 

“ I had no time to write and warn you of this visit, Mrs. 
Smith. Be kind enough to answer any questions these 
gentlemen may wish to ask you.” 

We all made way for Mr. Paine. 1 shall never forget 
the group, the anxiety and suspense on each face. 

“ Have you a child here in your charge?” asked the 
lawyer. 

But she looked at Coralie. 

“ Am I to answer, madame?” 

“ You are to answer any question put to you; my story 
is known.” 

“ Have you a child here in your charge?” he repeated. 

“ I have,” she replied. 

“ Who is it? Tell us in your own words.” 

“ He is the son of Mr. Miles Trevelyan and his wife, 
who was Mademoiselle d'Aubergne.” 

“ Where were they married?” he asked. 

“ They were married at the church of St. Helen's, 
Edgeton. I was one witness; the other was Arthur Ireton, 
the head gamekeeper. ” 

“ Where was this child born?” he asked again. 

“ Here, sir, at this house. Mrs. Trevelyan left home, 
it was believed, to visit some friends. She came here and 
took this house. I remained with her, and have had 
charge of little Master Rupert ever since.” 

He asked fifty other questions; they were answered with 
equal clearness and precision. 

“ Let us see the child,” said Sir John, impatiently. 

She went into the next room and brought out a lovely 
little boy. He was asleep, but at the sound of strange 
voices opened his eyes. 

4 ‘Mamma!” he cried, when he saw Coralie, and she 
took him in her arms. 

Sir John looked earnestly at him. 

“ There is no mistake,” he said; “ we want no further 
evidence. I can tell by his face this is poor Miles's son.” 

* He was a lovely, bright-eyed boy; he had Coralie's 
golden-brown hair, which fell in thick ringlets clown his 
pretty neck. 


228 


CORALIE. 


“ But it is Miles's face," Sir John repeated, and we 
did not doubt him. “ There remains but one thing more 
to make the whole evidence complete. We must see the 
registration of the birth of the child, and it would be 
better to see the doctor who attended you, madame." 

We did both on the following day. The registration of 
the child’s birth was right, perfect, and without a flaw. 

The doctor, a highly respectable medical practitioner 
offered us his evidence on oath. 

There was nothing left, then, but to return to Crown 
Anstey and give up possession. 

I loved the little boy. It was too absurd to feel any 
enmity against him. He was so' bright and clever; it 
would have been unmanly not to have loved dead Miles's 
son. 

Of Coralie Trevelyan I asked but one favor: that she 
would allow me one week in which to make some arrange- 
ment for Clare before she brought the young heir home. 
She cheerfully agreed to this. 

“ You bear your reverses bravely/' she said. 

“ Better than I bore prosperity," 1 replied; and that, 
God knows, was true. 

This new trial had braced my nerves, and made me 
stronger than I had ever been in my whole life before. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

The arrangement made for my sister was one I knew 
not how to be grateful enough for. Lady Thesiger insist- 
ed that she should go to Harden, and remain there until 
she was well. 

“ She need know nothing of your misfortune yet. We 
have but to say that she must be kept quiet, and admit no 
visitors except such as We can trust to say nothing to her. 
Agatha and myself will take the greatest care of her, and 
when she has recovered we will break the news to her." 

I was deeply grateful. It was all arranged without ex- 
citing my sister's suspicions. She told her that for many 
reasons it had been considered better to put off the mar- 
riage for some time, that I was going abroad for a year, 
and that she was to spend that year with Lady Thesiger. 

She looked wistfully at me. 


CORA LIE. 


22 9 


44 It’s all very sudden, Edgar. Are you sure it is for 
the best?” 

1 steadied my voice and told her laughingly it was all 
for the best. 

She asked where Coralie would be, and 1 told her that 
when she returned from the visit she was paying she would 
remain at Crown Anstey.^ 

There was not a dry eye among the servants when my 
sister -was carried from the home where she had been so 
happy. Of course, they all knew the story — it had spread 
like wild-fire all over the neighborhood — yet every one 
understood how vitally important it was that it should be 
kept from her. 

Can I ewer tell in words how kindly Lady Thesiger re- 
ceived her? True friends, they took no note of altered 
fortunes. My sister was comfortably installed in the 
charming rooms they had prepared for her. Her favorite 
maid was to stay with her. 

Then came the agony I had long known must come. I 
must give up Agatha. How could I, who had not one 
shilling in my pocket, marry the daughter of Sir John 
Thesiger, a girl delicate and refined, who had been brought 
up in all imaginable luxury? Let me work hard as I 
might, 1 could hardly hope to make two hundred a year. 
In all honor and in all conscience 1 was bound to give her 
up. 

1 had no prospect before me but that of returning to my 
former position as clerk. Agatha Thesiger must never be 
a clerk’s wife, she who could marry any peer in the land. 

Talk of waiting and hoping! 1 had nothing to hope for. 
The savings of my whole life would not keep her, as she 
had been kept, for even one year. 

I must give her up. Ah, my God! it was hard— so bit- 
terly hard! 1 told Sir John, and he looked wretched as 
myself. 

1 see, I see. It is the only thing to be done. If I 
could give her a fortune, you should not lose her; but I 
can not, and she must not come to poverty. ” 

Lady Thesiger wept bitterly over me. 

44 1 foresaw it from the first,” she said. 44 1 knew it 
was not the loss of Crown Anstey, but the loss of Agatha 
would be your sorest trial. ” 

Then I said “ good-bye ” to her whom I had hoped so 


230 


CORA LIE. 


soon to call my wife. I kissed her white face and trem- 
bling hands for the last time. 

But the dear soul clung to me, weeping. 

“ You may say you must leave me a thousand times, 
Edgar, but I shall never be left. I shall wait for you; and 
if it be never in your power to claim me, I shall marry no 
other man. I will be yours in*death as in life.” 

And though I tried to shake her resolution, I knew that 
it would be so. 1 knew that no other man would ever call 
her wife. 

The day before 1 left, Mrs. Trevelyan, with the little 
Sir Rupert, took possession of the Hall. She must have 
found many thorns in her path, for although she had at- 
tained her heart's desire, aud was now mistress of Crown 
Anstey, she was shunned and disliked by all the neighbor- 
hood. 

“ An adventuress ” they called her, and as such refused 
to receive her into their society. Perhaps she had foreseen 
this when she wished to marry me. 

By Sir John's influence, the post of secretary was found 
for me with an English nobleman residing in Paris. I was 
to live in the house, my duties were sufficiently onerous, 
and 1 was to receive a salary of one hundred and fifty 
pounds per annum; so that, after all, I was better off than 
I had once expected to be. 

I bid farewell to Agatha, to Clare, to my kind friends 
Sir John and Lady Thesiger. God knew my grief; I can 
not describe it. 

On my road to the station I met the Crown Anstey car- 
riage. Mrs. Trevelyan bowed to me from it. She was 
taking a drive with the little Sir Rupert. 

“ God bless the child!” 1 said, aS his little face smiled 
from the carriage window. “ God bless him, and send 
him a happy life!” 

It took me some little time to settle down to my new 
life. My employer. Lord Winter, lived in the Champs 
Elysees. He preferred Paris to England, because it was 
brighter and gayer. 1 often wondered how that mattered 
to him, for he lived only in his books. 

1 was required to assist him in making extracts, answer- 
ing letters, searching for all kinds of odd information; and 
I do believe I learned more in that time than 1 should have 
done in a life-time differently spent. 


CORALIE. 


231 


I became reconciled to it after a hard struggle. From 
Harden Manor I constantly received the kindest letters. 
Agatha wrote to me, and although the word “ love " sel- 
dom occurred in her letters, 1 knew her heart was, and 
always would be mine. She would never forget me, nor 
would that crown of all sorrows be mine— I should never 
have to give her up to a wealthier rival. Although she 
said nothing of the kind in her letters, 1 felt that it was 
true. 

A year passed, and at last came good tidings of my sis- 
ter; she was able to sit up, even to walk across the room, 
and the doctor said another month would in all probability 
find her able to take her place in the world again. 

How that gladdened my heart! Lady Thesiger said she 
had not the least idea yet of the change in my fortunes, 
although she wondered incessantly why I was absent. 

“ Have no fear for your sister's future," wrote kind 
Lady Thesiger. “ While Agatha lives at home she is a 
most charming companion for her. Should she ever leave 
home, she would be the same to me. We shall only be 
too happy if she will spend her life at Harden Manor. " 

1 was grateful for that. Now, then, fate seemed kinder. 
I could fight through for myself, providing that my fragile, 
delicate Clare was safely taken care* of. 

Another six months passed. Clare knew all then, and 
was resigned. God had been very good to her. She could 
walk; distance did not fatigue her; and the doctors thought 
it was very unlikely that the same disease would attack her 
again. 

She wrote and told me about it. 

“ I was out yesterday," she said, “ with Agatha, and 
we met the Crown Anstev carriage. Coralie was most 
gracious, overwhelmend me with congratulations, invited 
me to the Hall. And 1 saw the little Sir Rupert. He is 
so bright and beautiful, the most princely boy I ever be- 
held. ‘ I am going to have a white pony/ he said to me, 
and I kissed him, Edgar, with all my heart. Coralie in- 
quired very minutely after you, and asked me if I owed 
her any ill-will for what she had done. I said no, not in 
the least, and that I hoped little Sir Rupert would live to 
make her very happy. I am not quite sure, but I think 
there were tears glistening in her eyes when she drove 
away/’ 


232 


CORA LIE. 


Some weeks afterward I received the following letter 
from Mrs. Trevelyan: 

“ My dear Edgar, — Once again I address yon — once 
again, setting pride and all things aside, I offer you Crown 
Anstey. You have been away some time now, and know 
how different is your present hard life from the happy, 
luxurious one you led here. Y x our engagement with Miss 
Thesiger is, of course, broken off. 1 hear she has a 
wealthy suitor — Lord Abberley. It will be a good match 
for her. Edgar, you will find no one in the wide world so 
true to you as myself. See, 1 forget all the past. Once 
more 1 offer you my love, my hand, and with it, until my 
son is of age. Crown Anstey. I never intended you to give 
it up as you have done. 1 always wished to offer yourself 
and your sister an income sufficient for your maintenance. 
I have not done so before because 1 hoped that poverty 
would seem so hateful to you you would gradually come to 
think better of my offer. Is it so, Edgar? Will you 
recognize my love, my fidelity, my devotion at last? One 
word, and all your troubles cease, you are back again in 
the beautiful old home, and 1 am happy. Only one word. 
From your ever-loving, devoted 

“Coralie.” 

1 need not repeat my answer. It was, No! I was no 
more free, no more inclined to return to Crown Anstey 
than I had been to remain there. 

After that there was a long silence. Agatha told me 
herself all about Lord Abberley; he had been very kind to 
her, was very fond of her, but she had told him our story, 
and he had most generously forborne to press his suit. 

Time was doing much for me; every hour was golden in 
its acquisition of fresh knowledge and learning. All the 
blanks in my life were filled by books. God send every 
one the same comfort I had. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

It was just three years since I had left Crown Anstey. 
Lord Winter told me 1 should have some weeks to myself, 
but he was so incessantly occupied 1 never liked to ask for 
them. 

1 had never seen or heard anything of Crown Anstey 


CORA LIE. 233 

since 1 left it. At Harden Manor all was the same, un- 
changed and unaltered. 

One morning, when 1 went into the library, a letter lay 
waiting for me. I saw that it was Coralie’s handwriting, 
and my first impulse was to burn it unread. Why should 
she write to me again? Her letters only pained me. I 
threw it aside and began my work — in the busy occupation 
of the morning 1 forgot all about it. 

I did not open it until evening. It was from Coralie, 
but it only held these few words: 

“Edgar, — My boy — my beautiful boy — is dying. 
Come to me; for if I lose him I shall die too. In my dis- 
tress I would rather have you near me than any one else. 

“ Coralie Trevelyan. ” 

Was it true, or was it an invention? Poor little Rupert 
dying! Why, no one had even told me he was ill. Per- 
haps I had better go. No mother could be so cold and so 
wicked as to feign death for her only child. 

Lord Winter raised no objection. 

It was not very convenient, he said, but of course he 
“ must bow to necessity.” 

I was in time to catch the mail train. Eight o'clock 
found me the next morning in London, and, without wait- 
ing for rest or refreshment, I started at once for Crown 
Anstey. 

It was only too true. I found my old home full of the 
wildest confusion; women were weeping and wringing their 
hands — the whole place was in disorder. 

1 was shown into the library, and in a few minutes 
Coralie came to me. I hardly recognized her; her face 
was white, her eyes were dim with long watching and bit- 
ter tears. 

“ 1 knew you would come,” she said. “ He is dying— 
Edgar; nothing in the world can save him. Come with 
me.” 

I followed her to the pretty chamber where little Sir 
Rupert lay. Yes, he was dying, poor child! He lay on 
the pretty white bed; a grave-faced doctor was near; the 
nurse, Sarah Smith, sat by his side. 

His mother went up to him. 

“No better! No change!” she cried, wringing her 
hands. “ Oh, my God! must I lose him? Must he die?” 


234 


CORALIE. 


He was my unconscious rival; his little life stood be- 
tween me and all I valued most, yet I knelt and prayed 
God, as I had never prayed befoie, that He would spare 
him. I would have given Crown Anstey twice over for 
that life; but it was not to be. 

“ Do not disturb him with cries, ” said the doctor to his 
mother, “ he has not long to live.” 

She knelt by his side in silence, her face colorless as that 
of a marble statue, the very picture of desolation, the very 
image of woe. 

Once she raised her dark eyes to the doctor’s face. 

“ If I offered to die for him,” she said, 44 would that be 
of any use?” 

“ God’s will be done,” said the doctor. “ It is your 
child that is called, not you.” 

So for some minutes we sat; the little breath grew 
fainter and more feeble, the gray shadow deepened on the 
lovely face. 

“ Mamma!” he cried. “ 1 see! 1 see!” 

She bent over him, and that moment he died. 

I can never forget it — the wild, bitter anguish of that 
unhappy woman, how she wept, how she tore her hair, 
how she called her child back by every tender name a 
mother’s love could invent. 

It was better, the doctor said, that the first paroxysm of 
grief should have full vent. All attempts at comfort and 
consolation were unavailing. I raised her from the ground, 
and when she saw my face she cried: 

4 4 Oh, Edgar, Edgar, it is my punishment!” 

I did my best to console her. I told her that her little 
child would be better off in heaven than were he master of 
fifty Crown Ansteys. But I soon found that my words fell 
on deaf ears; she was unconscious. 

“ 1 do not like the look of Mrs. Trevelyan,” said the 
doctor. “ I should not be surprised to find that she has 
caught the fever herself. If so, in her present state of 
agitation, it will go hard with her.” 

He was right; before sunset Coralio lay in the fierce 
clutches of the fever, insensible to everything. 

I do not like dwelling on this part of the story, it is so 
long, long since it all happened, but the memory of it 
stings like a sharp pain. 

Clare came to nurse her, and everything that human 


CORA LIE. 235 

science and skill could suggest was done to save her. It 
was all in vain. 

We buried the little child on the Tuesday morning, 
when the sun was shining and the birds were singing in the 
trees, and on the Saturday they told us his mother could 
not live. 

It was early on the dawn of the Sunday morning when 
they sent for me. She was dying, and wished to speak to 
me. 

1 went into her room. Clare knelt by her side. She 
turned her white face to me with a smile. 

“ Edgar,” she said, “1 am glad you have come. I 
want to — to die in your arms, Bend down to me,” she 
whispered, “ I want to speak to you. Will you forgive 
me? I can see now how wrong 1 was, how wicked to love 
you so much, and how wicked to tell you so. Will you 
forgive me, and now that I am dying say one kind word to 
me, and tell me you can respect me in death?” 

1 pillowed that dying head on my arm, and told her I 
should only remember of her what had been kind and 
good. 

“ You will only remember that I loved you, Edgar, not 
that I was unwomanly and wicked?” 

“ I will forget everything, except that you were my dear 
cousin and dear friend.” 

“You will marry Agatha,” she said, faintly, “and 
bring her home here. I hope you will be happy; but, oh, 
Edgar, Edgar, when she is your wife, and you are so 
happy together, you will not forget me; you will stroll out 
sometimes when the dew is falling, to look at my grave, 
and say, ‘ Poor Coralie! how well she loved me — so well, so 
dearly? You will do that, Edgar?” 

My tears fell warm and fast on her face. 

“ Are these your tears? Then you care a little for me. 
Ah, then, I am willing to die!” 

And so, with her head pillowed on my arm, and a smile 
on her lips, she died. 

Ah, believe me, reader, though my after life was happy 
as -a king’s, I would sooner little Rupert and Coralie 
had lived. God knows I am speaking the truth. 

We buried her by the side of Miles Trevelyan. After 
life’s fitful fever she sleeps well. 

From the first hour of her illness the doctor had no hope 


CORALIE. 


236 

of her. I learned afterward that for some time before the 
child took the fever she had been ailing and ill. •* 

It was such a strange life. Thinking over it afterward, 
it seemed to me more like romance than reality. 

A year passed before the dream of my life was fulfilled 
and Agatha came to Crown Anstey. I need not say how 
happy we were. 

Lady Trevelyan is the most beloved and popular lady in 
the county; our children are growing up good and happy; 
we have not a care of trouble in the world; and the sharp- 
est pain 1 have is the memory of Coralie. 


THE END. 


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E. About. 

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Author of “ Addie’s Hus- 
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388 Addie’s Husband; or, 
Through Clouds to Sun- 


shine 25 

504 My Poor Wife 25 

1016 Jessie 25 

Max Adeler. 

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246 A Fatal Dower.. 25 

372 Phyllis’s Probation 25 

461 His Wedded Wife 25 

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Author of “A Golden Bar.” 

483 Betwixt My Love and Me. 25 

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244 A Great Mistake 25 

588 Cherry 25 

1040 Clarissa’s Ordeal 25 

1137 Prince Charming 25 

1187 Suzanne 25 

Author of “ A Woman’s 
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322 A Woman’s Love-Story.. 25 
677 Griselda 25 

Author of ‘‘For Mother’s 
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1900 Leonie; or, The Sweet 
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Author of “He,” “It,” etc. 
1916 King Solomon’s Treas- 
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Hamilton Aide. 

383 Introduced to Society. . . 25 
Gustave Aimard. 

1341 The Trappers of Arkan- 
sas 

1396 The Adventurers 

1398 Pirates of the Prairies. . . 

1400 Queen of the Savannah. 

1401 The Buccaneer Chief 

1402 The Smuggler Hero 

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1653 The Pearl of the Andes.. 

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1688 The Trapper’s Daughter 

1690 The Tiger-Slayer 

1692 Border Rifles 

1700 The Flying Horseman ... . 

1701 The Freebooters 

1714 The W 7 hite Scalper 

1723 The Guide of the Desert. 

1732 Last of the Ancas 

1734 Missouri Outlaws 

1736 Prairie Flower 

1740 Indian Scout 

1741 Stronghand 

1742 Bee-Hunters 

1744 Stoneheart 

1748 The Gold-Seekers 

1752 Indian Chief 

1756 Red Track 

1761 The Treasure of Pearls.. 
1768 Red River Half-Breed. . . 

Mary Albert. 

933 A Hidden Terror 

Grant Allen. 

712 For Maimie's Sake...... 

1221 “ The Tents of Shem ”... 

1783 The Great Taboo 

1870 What’s Bred in the Bone 
1908 Dumaresq’s Daughter... 
2022 Duchess of Powysland.. 

Mrs. Alexander. 

5 The Admiral’s Ward. . . 

17 The Wooing Q’t 

62 The Executor 

189 Valerie’s Fate 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow?.’. 


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805 The Freres. 1st half 25 

805 The Freres. 2d half 25 

806 Her Dearest Foe 25 

814 The Heritage of Langdale 25 

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997 Forging the Fetters, and 

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1054 Mona’s Choice 25 

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1189 A Crooked Path 25 

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1367 Heart Wins 25 

1459 A Woman’s Heart 25 

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1582 An Interesting Case 25 

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194 “So Near, and 1 Yet So 

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278 For Life and Love 25 

481 The House That Jack 
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533 Eight Years Wandering 

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772 Gascoj'ne, the Sandal- 

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1940 Olga’s Crime ,. 25 

J. M. Barrie. 

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1977 Better Dead 25 

Basil. 

344 “The Wearing of the 

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547 A Coquette’s Conquest.. 25 
585 A Drawn Game 25 


T. S. Arthur. 

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1640 Ways of Providence 25 

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97 All in a Garden Fair. ... 25 


137 Uncle Jack 25 

140 A Glorious Fortune 25 

146 Love Finds the Way,and 
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324 In Luck at Last 25 

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651 “ Self or Bearer ” 25 

882 Children of Gibeon 25 

904 The Holy Rose 25 

906 The World Went Very 

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980 To Call Her Mine 25 

1055 Katharine Regina 25 

1065 Herr Paulus: His Rise, 
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1378 They Were Married. By 
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Tower 25 

2018 The Revolt of Man 25 

M. Betli am-E«l wards. 

273 Love and Mirage ; or, The 
Waiting on an Island. . . 25 
579 The Flower of Doom, and 

Other Stories 25 

594 Doctor Jacob 25 

1023 Next of Kin— Wanted... 25 
1407 The Parting of the Ways 25 

1500 Disarmed 25 

1543 For One and the World.. 25 
1627 A Romance of the Wire. 25 
1845 Forestalled ; or, The Life 
Quest 25 

Jeanie Gwynne Bettany. 
1810 A Laggard in Love 25 


Bjornstjerne Bjornson. 

1385 Arne 25 

1388 The Happy Boy 25 

William Black. 

1 Yolande 25 

18 Shandon Bells 25 

21 Sunrise: A Story of These 

Times 25 

23 A Princess of Thule 25 

39 In Silk Attire 25 

44 Macleod of Dare 25 

49 That Beautiful Wretch. . 25 

50 The Strange Adventures 

of a Phaeton 25 

70 White Wings: A Yacht- 
ing Romance 25 

78 Madcap Violet 25 

81 A Daughter of Heth. . .. 25 

124 Three Feathers 25 

125 The Monarch of Mincing 

Lane. . 25 

126 Kilmeny 25 

138 Green Pastures and Pic- 
cadilly 25 

265 Judith Shakespeare: Her 
Love Affairs and Other 

Adventures 25 

472 The Wise Women of In- 
verness 25 

627 White Heather 25 

898 Romeo and Juliet: A Tale 
of Two Young Fools. . . 25 

962 Sabina Zembra 25 

1096 The Strange Adventures 

of a House-Boat 25 

1132 In Far Lochaber 25 

1227 The Penance of John 

Logan ... 25 

1259 Nanciebel: A Tale of 

Stratford-on-Avon 25 

1268 Prince Fortunatus 25 

1389 Oliver Goldsmith 25 

1394 The Four Macnicols, and 

Other Tales 25 

1426 An Adventure in Thule.. 25 

1505 Lady Silverdale’s Sweet- 

heart 25 

1506 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, 

M. P 25 

1725 Stand Fast, Craig-Roy- 

ston! 25 

1892 Donald Ross of Heimra.. 25 

R. D. Blackmore. 

67 Lorna Doone 25 

427 The Remarkable History 
of Sir Thomas Upmore, 

Bart., M. P 25 

615 Mary Anerley 25 

625 Erema; or, My Father’s 
Sin 25 

629 Cripps, the Carrier 25 

630 Cradock Nowell 25 


POCKET EDITION. 


5 


631 Christowell. A Dartmoor 

rp a l e 

632 Clara Vaughan 

633 The Maid of Sker 

636 Alice Lorraine 

926 Springhaven 

1267 Kit and Kitty 

Isa Blagden. 

705 The Woman I Loved, and 
the Woman Who Loved 
Me 

C. Blatherwick. 

151 The Ducie Diamonds 

Frederick Boyle. 

356 The Good Hater 

Miss M. E. Braddou. 

35 Lady Audley’s Secret... 

56 Phantom Fortune 

74 Aurora Floyd 

110 Under the Red Flag 

153 The Golden Calf . 

204 Vixen 

211 The Octoroon 

234 Barbara; or, Splendid 

Misery. 

263 An Ishmaelite 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. 
Christmas, 1884. Edited 
by Miss M. E. Braddon. 

434 Wy llard's Weird... 

478 Di’avola; or, Nobody’s 

Daughter 

480 Married in Haste. Edi- 
ted by Miss M. E. Brad- 
don 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by 

Miss M. E. Braddon 

488 J o s h u a Haggard's 

Daughter 

489 Rupert Godwin 

495 Mount Royal 

496 Only a Woman. Edited 

by Miss M. E. Braddon . 

497 The Lady’s Mile 

498 Only a Clod 

499 The Cloven Foot 

511 A Strange World 

515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 

524 Strangers and Pilgrims. 

529 The Doctor’s Wife 

542 Fenton’s Quest 

544 Cut by the County; or, 

Grace Darnel 

548 A Fatal Marriage, and 

The Shadow in the Cor- 
ner 

549 Dudley Carleon; or, The 

Brother’s Secret, and 
George Caulfield’s Jour- 
ney 

552 Hostages to Fortune. .. 


553 Birds of Prey 25 

554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. 

(Sequel to “ Birds of 

Prey ”) 25 

557 To the Bitter End 25 

559 Taken at the Flood 25 

560 Asphodel 25 

561 Just as I am; or, A Liv- 

ing Lie 25 

567 Dead Men’s Shoes 25 

570 John Marchmont’s Leg- 


• 

618 The Mistletoe Bough. 


Christmas, 1885. Edited 
by Miss M. E. Braddon. 25 
840 One Thing Needful; or, 
The Penalty of Fate... 25 

881 Mohawks 25 

890 The Mistletoe Bough. 
Christmas, 1886. Edited 
by Miss M. E. Braddon.. 25 
943 Weavers and Weft; or, 

“ Love that Hath Us in 


His Net” 25 

947 Publicans and Sinners; 

or, Lucius Davoren 25 

1036 Like and Unlike 25 

1098 The Fatal Three 25 

1211 The Day Will Come 25 

1411 Whose Was the Hand?.. 25 

1664 Dead Sea Fruit 25 

1893 The World, Flesh and the 
Devil 25 

Annie Bradshaw. 

706 A Crimson Stain 25 

Charlotte M. Braetne, Au- 
thor of “ Bora Thorne.” 

19 Her Mother’s Sin 25 

51 Dora Thorne ,... 25 

54 A Broken Wedding-Ring 25 

68 A Queen Amongst 

Women 25 

69 Madolin’s Lover 25 

73 Redeemed by Love; or, 

Love's Victory 25 

76 Wife in Name Only; or, 

A Broken Heart 25 

79 Wedded and Parted 25 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice — 25 
148 Thorns and Orange- 

Blossoms 25 

190 Romance of a Black Veil 25 
220 Which Loved Him Best? 25 
237 Repented at Leisure 25 


249 “Prince Charlie’s Daugh- 
ter;” or. The Cost of 


Her Love 25 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, 

Diana’s Discipline 25 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and 
Fair but False 25 


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6 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. 


283 The Sin of a Lifetime: 
or, Vivien’s Atonement 25 

291 Love’s Warfare 25 

292 A Golden Heart#. 25 

296 A Rose in Thorns 25 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A 

Bride from the Sea 25 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A 

Bridge of Love 25 

303 Ingledew House, and 

More Bitter than Death 25 

304 In Cupid’s Net 25 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady 

Gwendoline’s Dream... 25 

306 A Golden Dawn, and 

Love for a Da}' 25 

307 Two Kisses, aud Like no 

Other Love 25 

308 Beyond Pardon 25 

322 A Woman’s Love-Story. 25 

323 A Willful Maid 25 

411 A Bitter Atonement. 25 

433 My Sister Kate 25 

459 A Woman’s Temptation. 25 

460 Under a Shadow 25 

465 The Earl’s Atonement. .. 25 

466 Between Two Loves 25 

467 A Struggle for a Ring. . . 25 

469 Ladj r Darner’s Secret 25 

470 Evelyn’s Folly 25 

471 Thrown on the World... 25 
476 Between Two Sins; or, 

Married in Haste 25 

516 Put Asunder; or. Lady 
Castlemaine’s Divorce. 25 

576 Her Martyrdom 25 

626 A Fair Mystery; or, The 

Perils of Beauty 25 

741 The Heiress of Hilldrop; 
or, The Romance of a 

Young Girl 25 

745 For Another’s Sin; or, A 

Struggle for Love 25 

792 Set in Diamonds 25 

821 T h e World Between 

Them 25 

822 A Passion Flower 25 

853 A True Magdalen 25 

854 A Woman’s Error 25 

922 Marjorie 25 

923 At War With Herself.... 25 

924 ’Twixt Smile and Tear... 25 

927 Sweet Cymbeline 25 

928 The False Vow; or, 

Hilda; or, Lady Hut- 
ton’s Ward 25 

928 Lady Hutton’s Ward; or, 
Hilda; or, The False 
Vow \ 25 

928 Hilda; or. The False 

Vow; or, Lady Hutton’s 
W 3,rd 25 

929 The Belie of Lynn; or, 
The Miller’s Daughter.. 25 


931 Lady Diana’s Pride 25 

948 The Shadow of a Sin 25 

949 Claribel’s Love Story; or, 

Love’s Hidden Depths-. 25 

952 A Woman’s War 25 

953 Hilary’s Folly; cr, Her 


or. From Out the Gloom 25 
958 A Haunted Life ; or, Her 

Terrible Sin 25 

969 The Mystery of Colde 
Fell; or, Not Proven... 25 
973 The Squire’s Darling. .. 25 
975 A Dark Marriage Morn.. 25 

978 Her Second Love 25 

982 The Duke’s Secret 25 

985 On Her Wedding Morn, 
and The Mystery of the 

Holly-Tree 25 

988 The Shattered Idol, and 

Letty Leigh 25 

990 The Earl’s Error, and 

Arnold’s Promise 25 

995 An Unnatural Bondage, 
and That Beautiful 
Lady 25 

1006 His Wife’s Judgment 25 

1008 A Thorn in Her Heart.. 25 

1010 Golden Gates 25 

1012 A Nameless Sin 25 

1014 A Mad Love 25 

1031 Irene’s Vow 25 

1052 Signa’s Sweetheart 25 

1091 A Modern Cinderella 25 


1134 Lord Elesmere's Wife 25 

1155 Lured Away; or, The 
Story of a Wedding- 
Ring, and The Heiress 

of Arne 25 

1179 Beauty’s Marriage 25 

1185 A Fiery Ordeal .\ . . 25 

1195 Dumaresq’s Temptation. 25 

1285 Jenny 25 

1291 The Star of Love 25 

1328 Lord Lisle's Daughter. . . 25 
1415 Weaker than a Woman. 25 
1628 Love Works Wonders. . . 25 

2010 Her Only Sin 25 

2011 A Fatal Wedding 25 

2012 A Bright Wedding-Day. . 25 

2013 One Against Many 25 

2014 One False Step 25 

2015 Two Fair Women 25 

2068 Lady Latimer’s Escape, 

and Other Stories 25 

Freilrilta Breiner. 

187 The Midnight Sun 25 

John Francis Brewer. 

1911 The Curse upon Mitre 
Square 25 


POCKET EDITION, 


7 


Charlotte Bronte. 

15 Jane Eyre 25 

57 Shirley 25 

944 The Professor 25 

Rlioda Broughton. 

86 Belinda 25 

101 Second Thoughts 25 

227 Nancy <"7777 25 

645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains 25 
758 “Good-bye, Sweet- 

heart 25 
765 Not Wisely, But Too Well 25 

767 Joan 25 

768 Red as a Rose is She 25 

769 Cometh Up as a Flower. 25 

862 Betty’s Visions 25 

894 Doctor Cupid 25 

1599 Alas! 25 

Louise tie Bruneval. 

1686 Soeur Louise 25 

Robert Buchanan. 

145 “ Storm • Beaten God 

and The Man 25 

154 Annan Water 25 

181 The New Abelard 25 

268 The Martyrdom of Mad- 
eline 25 

398 Matt : A Tale of a Cara- 
van 25 

468 The Shadow of the Sword 25 

646 The Master of the Mine. 25 

892 That Winter Night; or, 

Love’s Victory 25 

1074 Stormy Waters 25 

1104 The Heir of Linne r . 25 

1350 Love Me Forever 25 

1455 The Moment After 25 

John Bunyan. 

1498 The Pilgrim’s Progress . . 25 

Captain Fred Burnaby. 

330 “ Our Radicals 25 

375 A Ride to Khiva 25 

384 On Horseback Through 
Asia Minor 25 

John Bloundelle-Burton. 

913 The Silent Shore; or, 


The Mystery 

of St. 

James’ Park. . 

25 

Beatrice M. 

Butt. 

1354 Delicia 

25 

2019 Miss Molly 

25 

2044 Eugenie 

25 

2056 Geraldine Hawthorne... 25 


Author of “By Crooked 
Paths.” 

430 A Bitter Reckoning 25 


E. Lasscter Bynner. 

1456 Nimport 25 

1460 Tritons 25 

Lord Byron. 

719 Childe Harold’s Pilgrim- 
age 25 

E. Fairfax Byrrne. 

521 Entangled 25 

538 A Fair Country Maid 25 

Mrs. H. M. Cadell. 

2039 Ida Craven 25 

Mrs. Caddy. 

127 Adrian Bright 25 

Hall Caine, 

445 The Shadow of a Crime. 25 
520 She’s All the World to 

25 

1234 The Deemster 25 

1255 The Bondman 25 

Mona Caird. 

1699 The Wing of Azrael 25 

Ada Cambridge. 

1583 A Marked Man 25 

1967 My Guardian 25 

Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron. 

595 A North Country Maid.. 25 

796 In a Grass Country 25 

891 Vera Nevill; or, Poor 

Wisdom’s Chance 25 

912 Pure Gold 25 

963 Worth Winning 25 

1025 Daisy’s Dilemma 25' 

1028 A Devout Lover; or, A 

Wasted Love 25 

1070 A Life’s Mistake 25 

1204 The Lodge by the Sea. .. 25 

1205 A Lost Wife 25 

1236 Her Father’s Daughter. . 25 
1261 Wild George’s Daughter. 25 

1290 The Cost of a Lie 25 

1292 Bosky Dell 25 

1549 The Cruise of the Black 

Prince 25 

1782 A Dead Past 25 

1819 Neck or Nothing 25 

1991 Proved Unworthy 25 

Lady Colin Campbell. 

1325 Darell Blake 25 

Itosa Nouchette Carey. 
235 Not Like Other Girls... 25 
396 Robert Ord’s Atonement 25 
551 Bar b a r a Heathcote’s 


Trial 25 

608 For Lilias. 25 

930 Uncle Max 25 

932 Queenie’s Whim 25 


8 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. 


934 Wooed and Married 25 

936 Nellie’s Memories 25 

961 Wee Wide 25 

1033 Esther: A Story for Girls 25 

1064 Only the Governess 25 

1135 Aunt Diana 25 

1194 The Search for Basil 

Lyndhurst 25 

1208 Merle’s Crusade 25 

1545 Lover or Friend? 25 

1879 Mary St. John 25 

1965 Averil 25 

1966 Our Bessie 25 

1968 Heriot’s Choice 25 


William Carleton. 

1493 Willy Reilly 25 

1552 Shane Fadh’s Wedding.. 25 

1553 Larry McFarland’s Wake 25 

1554 The Party Fight and 

Funeral 25 

1556 The Midnight Mass 25 

1557 Phil Purcel 25 

1558 An Irish Oath 25 

1560 Going to Maynooth 25 

1561 Phelim O’Toole's Court- 

ship 25 

1562 Dominick, the Poor 

Scholar 25 

1564 Neal Malone 25 

Alice Cumyns Carr. 

571 Paul Crew’s Story 25 

Lewis Carroll. 

462 Alice’s Adventures in 
Wonderland. Illustrated 

by John Tenniel 25 

789 Through the Looking- 
Glass, and What Alice 
Found There. Illustra- 
ted by John Tenniel 25 


Cervantes. 

1576 Don Quixote 25 


L. W. Cliainpuey. 

1468 Bourbon Lilies 25 


Erckmaiiii-Cliatrian. 


329 The Polish Jew. (Trans- 
lated from the French 
by Caroline A. Merighi.) 25 

Victor Cherbuliez. 


1516 Samuel Brohl & Co 25 

2001 Joseph Noirel’s Re- 
venge 25 

2020 Count Kostia 25 

2021 Prosper 25 


Mrs. C. M. Clarke. 

1801 More True than Truthful 25 


W. M. Clemens. 

1544 Famous Funny Fellows. 25 


J. Maclaren Cobban. 

485 Tinted Vapours 

1279 Master of His Fate 

1511 A Reverend Gentleman. 
1953 The Horned Cat 

John Coleman. 

504 Curly : An Actor’s Story 

C. It. Coleridge. 

403 An English Squire 

1689 A Near Relation 

Beatrice Collensie. 

1352 A Double Marriage 

Mabel Collins. 

749 Lord Vanecourt’sDaugh- 

. ter 

828 The Prettiest Woman in 

Warsaw 

1463 Ida: An Adventure in 

Morocco 

Wilkie Collins. 

52 The New Magdalen 

102 The Moonstone 

167 Heart and Science 

168 No Thoroughfare. By 

Dickens and Collins 

175 Love’s Random Shot, 

and Other Stories 

233 “I Say No;” or, The 
Love-Letter Answered. 

508 The Girl at the Gate 

591 The Queen of Hearts 

613 The Ghost’s Touch, and 
Percy and the Prophet. 

623 My Lady’s Money 

701 The Woman in White. 

1st half 

701 The Woman in White. 

2d half.... 

702 Man and Wife. 1st half. 
702 Man and Wife. 2d half. 

764 The Evil Genius 

896 The Guilty River 

946 The Dead Secret 

977 The Haunted Hotel 

1029 Armadale. 1st half 

1029 Armadale. 2d half 

1095 The Legacy of Cain 

1119 No Name. 1st half 

1119 No Name. 2d half 

1269 Blind Love 

1347 A Rogue’s Life 

1608 Tales of Two Idle Ap- 
prentices. By Charles 
Dickens and Wilkie Col- 
lins 

1895 Miss or Mrs.? 

M. J. Colquhotin. 

624 Primus in Indis 

1469 Every Inch a Soldier .... 


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POCKET EDITION. 


9 


Hugh Conway. 

240 Called Back 

251 The Daughter of the 
Stars, and Other Tales.. 

301 Dark Days 

302 The Blatchford Bequest. 

341 A Dead Man’s Face 

502 Carriston’s Gift 

525 Paul Vargas, and Other 

Stories 

543 A Family Affair 

601 Slings and Arrows, and 

Other Stories 

711 A Cardinal Sin 

804 Living or Dead 

830 Bound by a Spell 

1353 All In One 

1684 Story of a Sculptor 

1722 Somebody’s Story 

J. Fenimore Cooper. 

60 The Last of the Mohi- 
cans - 

63 The Spy 

309 The Pathfinder 

310 The Prairie 

318 The Pioneers; or, The 

Sources of the Susque- 
hanna 

349 The Two Admirals 

359 The Water-Witch 

361 The Red Rover 

373 Wing and Wing 

378 Homeward Bound; or, 

The Chase 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel 

to “Homeward Bound”) 

380 Wyandotte; or, The Hut- 

ted Knoll 

385 The Headsman : or, The 
Abbaye des Vignerons 

394 The Bravo 

397 Lionel Lincoln; or. The 

Leaguer of Boston 

400 The Wept of Wish-Ton- 
Wish 

413 Afloat and Ashore 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Se- 

quel to “ Afloat and 
Ashore”) 

415 The Ways of the Hour. . 

416 Jack Tier; or, The Flor- 

ida Reef 

419 TheChainbearer; or. The 

Littlepage Manuscripts 

420 Satanstoe ; or, The Little- 

page Manuscripts 

421 The Redskins; or, In- 

dian and Injin. Being 
the conclusion of the 
Littlepage Manuscripts 

422 Precaution 

423 The Sea Lions; or. The 

Lost Sealers 


424 Mercedes of Castile; or, 

The Voyage to Cathay.. 25 

425 The .Oak-Openings; or, 

The Bee-Hunter 25 

431 The Monikins 25 

1062 T,he Deerslayer; or, The 

Fi rst War-Path 25 

1170 The Pilot 25 

Marie Corelli. 

1068 Vendetta ! or. The Story 

of One Forgotten .’. 25 

1131 Thelma 25 

1329 My Wonderful Wife! 25 

1663 Wormwood 25 

Alice Corkran. 

2051 Bessie Lang 25 

Kiiinlinn Cornwallis. 

1601 Adrift With a Vengeance 25 

Madame Cottin. 

1366 Elizabeth 25 

John Coventry. 

2057 After His Kind 25 

Gcorgiana HI. Craik. 

450 Godfrey Helstone 25 

606 Mrs. Hollyer 25 

1681 A Daughter of the People 25 

Augustus Craven. 

1917 Fleurange 25 

Oswald Crawfurd. 

1739 Sylvia Arden 25 

R. K. Criswell. 

1584 Grandfather Lickshingle 25 

B. M. Crolter. 

207 Pretty Miss Neville 25 

260 Proper Pride 25 

412 Some One Else 25 

1124 Diana Barrington 25 

1607 Two Masters 25 

May Crotnmelin. 

452 In the West Countrie 25 

619 Joy: or. The Light of 

Cold Home Ford 25 

647 Goblin Gold 25 

1327 Midge 2 5 

1399 Violet Vyvian, M.F.H — 25 
1902 The Freaks of Lady For- 
tune '25 

Stuart C. Cumberland. 

641 The Rabbi’s Spell 25 

Maria S. Cummins. 

1984 The Lamplighter 25 


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10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. 


Mrs. Dale. 

1806 Fair and False 

1808 Behind the Silver Veil. . . 

It. II. Dana, Jr. 

311 Two Years Before the 
Mast 

Frank Dauby. 

1379 The Copper Crash 

Joyce Darrell. 

163 Winifred Power 

Alphonse Daudet. 

534 Jack 

574 The Nabob: A Story of 
Parisian Life and Man- 
ners 

1368 Lise Tavernier 

1629 Tartarin of Tarascon 

1666 Sidonie 

1670 The Little Good-for-Noth- 
ing 

C. Debans. 

1626 A Sheep in Wolf’s Cloth- 
ing 

Daniel Defoe. 

1312 Robinson Crusoe 

R. D’Ennery. 

242 The Two Orphans . 

Count De Gobineau. 

1606 Typliaines Abbey 

Hugh De Norniand. 
1454 The Gypsy Queen 

Thomas De Quincey. 

1059 Confessions of an En- 
glish Opium-Eater 

1380 The Spanish Nun 

Earl of Desart. 

1301 The Little Chatelaine 

1817 Lord and Lady Piccadilly 
1853 Herne Lodge 

Elsa D’Esterre-Keeling. 

382 Three Sisters 

Carl Detlef. 

1086 Nora 

1418 Irene 

Charles Dickens. 

10 The Old Curiosity Shop. 
22 David Copperfield Vol. I 
22 David Copnerfiel !. Vol. 

it : 

24 Pickwick Papers 

37 Nicholas Nickleby 

41 Oliver Twist 


77 A Tale of Two Cities 25 

84 Hard Times 25 

91 Barnaby Rudge 25 

94 Little Dorrit 25 

106 Bleak House. 1st half.. 25 

106 Bleak House. 2d half... 25 

107 Dombey and Son. 1st 

half 25 

107 Dombey and Son. 2d half 25 

108 The Cricket on the 

Hearth, and Doctor Mar- 
igold 25 

131 Our Mutual Friend. 1st 
half 25 

131 Our Mutual Friend. 2d 

half 25 

132 Master Hum phrey ’s 

Clock 25 

152 The Uncommercial Trav- 
0]0P 25 

168 No Thoroughfare. By 

Dickens and Collins 25 

169 The Haunted Man 25 

437 Life and Adventures of 

Martin Chuzzlewit 25 

439 Great Expectations 25 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings 25 

447 American Notes 25 

448 Pictures From Italy, and 

The Mudfog Papers, &c 25 
454 The Mystery of Edwin 

Drood 25 

456 Sketches by Boz. Illus- 
trative of Every-day 
Life and Every-day 

People 25 

676 A Child’s History of Eng- 
land 25 

731 The Boy at Mugby 25 

1520 Sketches of Young Cou- 

p ] s , 25 

1529 The Haunted House, etc. 25 
1533 A Christmas Carol, etc. . 25 
1541 Somebody’s Luggage... 25 
1608 Tales of Two Idle Ap- 
prentices. By Dickens 
and Collins 25 

Rt. Hon. Benjamin Disra- 
eli, Earl of Beaconsfield. 

793 Vivian Grey... 25 

Author of “Dr. Edith Rom- 
ney.” 

612 My Wife’s Niece 25 

Sarah Dondney, 

338 The Family Difficulty. .. 25 
679 Where Two Ways Meet. 25 

Richard Dowling. 


1829 Miracle Gold 25 

1834 A Baffling Quest 25 


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POCKET EDITION. 


11 


Edmund Downey. 

1746 A House of Tears 25 

1793 In One Town 25 

A. Conan Doyle. 

1305 The Firm of Girdlestone 25 
1894 The White Company. ... 25 
1980 A Study in Scarlet 25 

Catherine Drew. 

2055 The Lutaniste of St. 

Jacobi's 25 


Ediih Stewart Drewry. 

1846 Baptized With a Curse.. 25 


Gustave Droz. 

2002 Babolain 25 

2047 Around a Spring 25 

Henry Drummond. 

1813 The Greatest Thing in 

the World 25 

F. Du Boisgobey, 

82 Sealed Lips 25 

104 The Coral Pin 25 

264 Pi6douche, a French De- 

tective 25 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Mil- 
liner 25 

453 The Lottery Ticket 25 

475 The Prima Donna’s Hus- 
band 25 

522 Zig-Zag, the Clown ; or, 

The Steel Gauntlets 25 

523 The Consequences of a 

Duel. A Parisian Ro- 
mance 25 

648 The Angel of the Bells. . 25 

697 The Pretty Jailer 25 

699 The Sculptor's Daugh- 


782 The Closed Door. 1st half 25 
782 The Closed Door. 2d half 25 

851 The Cry of Blood 25 

918 The Red Band 25 

942 Cash on Delivery 25 

1076 The Mystery of an Omni- 
bus 25 

1080 Bertha’s Secret 25 

1082 The Severed Hand. 1st 

half 25 

1082 The Severed Hand. 2d 

half 25 

1085 The Matapan Affair. ... 25 
10S8 The Old Age of Mon- 
sieur Lecoq 25 

1730 The Blue Veil 25 

1762 The Detective’s Eve 25 

1765 The Red Lottery Ticket. 25 
1777 A Fight for a Fortune. . . 25 


“The Duchess,” 

2 Molly Bawn 25 

6 Portia 25 

14 Airy Fairy Lilian 25 

16 Phyllis 25 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey 25 

29 Beauty’s Daughters 25 

30 Faith and Unfaith 25 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford, 

and Eric Dering 25 

119 Monica, and A Rose Dis- 

till’d 25 

123 Sweet is True Love 

129 Rossmoyne 25 

134 The Witching Hour, and 25 

Other Stories 25 

136 “ That Last Rehearsal,” 

and Other Stories 25 

166 Moonshine and Marguer- 
ites 25 

171 Fortune’s Wheel, and 

Other Stories 25 

284 Doris 25 

312 A Week’s Amusement; 

or, A Week in Killarney 25 
342 The Baby, and One New 

Year’s Eve 25 

390 Mildred Trevanion 25 

404 In Durance Vile, and 

Other Stories 25 

486 Dick’s Sweetheart 25 

494 A Maiden All Forlorn, 

and Barbara 25 

517 A Passive Crime, and 

Other Stories 25 

541 “ As It Fell Upon a Day” 25 

733 Lady Branksmere 25 

771 A Mental Struggle 25 

785 The Haunted Chamber . 25 

862 Ugly Barrington 25 

875 Lady Valworth’s Dia- 
monds 25 

1009 In an Evil Hour, and 

Other Stories 25 

1016 A Modern Circe. . ; 25 

1035 The Duchess 25 

1047 Marvel 25 

1103 The Honorable Mrs. 

Vereker 25 

1123 Under-Currents 25 

1197 “ Jerry.” — “ That Night 
in June.” — A Wrong 
Turning. — Irish Love 

and Marriage 25 

1209 A Troublesome Girl 25 

1249 A Life’s Remorse ..25 

1383 A Born Coquette 25 

1363 “April's Lady”.... 25 

1453 Her Last Throw 25 

1862 A Little Irish Girl 25 

1891 A Little Rebel 25 


12 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. ’ 


Alexander Dumas, 

55 The Three Guardsmen.. 

75 Twenty Years After 

262 The Count of Moute- 

Cristo. Part I 

262 The Count of Monte- 

Cristo. Part II 

717 Beau Tanerede; or, The 
Marriage Verdict 

1055 Masanielld; or, The Fish- 

erman of Naples 

1340 The Son of Monte-Cristo 
1642 Monte-Cristo and His 
Wife. A Sequel to the 
“Count of Monte- 

Cristo.” 

1645 The Countess of Monte- 

Cristo 

1676 Camille 

2064 The Vicomte de Brage- 

lonne 

2065 Ten Years Later 

2066 Louise de la Valliere 

2067 The Man in the Iron 

Mask 

Sara Jeannette Duncan 

1852 An American Girl in Lon- 
don 

George Ebers, 

474 Serapis. An Historical 

Novel 

983 Uarda 

1056 The Bride of the Nile 

1094 Homo Sum 

1097 The Burgomaster’s Wife 
1101 An Egyptian Princess. . . 

1106 The Emperor 

1112 Only a Word 

1114 The Sisters 

1198 Gred of Nuremberg. A 

Romance of the Fif- 
teenth Century 

1266 Joshua: A Biblical Pict- 
ure 

Marla Edgeworth. 

708 Ormond 

788 The Absentee. An Irish 

Story 

1948 Popular Tales 

Amelia R. Edwards. 

99 Barbara’s History 

354 Hand and Glove 

1364 My Brother's W r ife 

1901 Miss Carew 

Mrs. Annie Edwards, 

644 A Girton Girl 

834 A Ballroom Repentance . 

835 Vivian the Beauty 

836 A Point of Honor 


837 A Vagabond Heroine — 25 

838 Ought We to Visit Her?.. 25 

839 Leah: A Woman of 

Fashion 25 

841 Jet: Her Face or Her 

Fortune? 25 

842 A Blue-Stocking 25 

843 Archie Lovell 25 

844 Susan Fielding 25 

845 Philip Earnscliffe ; or. 

The Morals of May Fair 25 

846 Steven Lawrence. 1st 

half 25 

840 Steven Lawrence. 2d half 25 
850 A Playwright's Daughter 25 


II. Sutherland Edwards. 


917 The Case of Reuben Ma- 


Mrs. C. J. Eiloart. 

114 Some of Our Girls 25 

George Eliot. 

3 The Mill on the Floss .... 25 

31 Middlemarcli 25 

34 Daniel Deronda 25 

36 Adam Bede 25 

42 Romola 25 

693 Felix Holt, the Radical.. 25 
707 Silas Marner: The 

Weaver of Raveloe 25 

728 Janet’s Repentance 25 

762 Impressions of Theo- 
phrastus Such 25 

1441 Amos Barton 25 

1501 The Spanish Gypsy, and 

Other Poems 25 

1504 Brn tlier Jacob 25 

Frances Elliot. 

381 The Red Cardinal 25 

Louis Enault. 

2058 Christine 25 

Mrs. T. Erskine. 

2043 Wyncote 25 

Eva Evergreen. 

1358 Agatha 25 

Hugh Ewing. 

2032 A Castle in the Air 25 

Juliana Horatia Ewing. 

752 Jackanapes, and Other 

Stories 25 

1880 A Flat Iron for a Farth- 
ing 25 

Kate Eyre, 

1804 A Step in the Dark 25 


25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 

25 


POCKET EDITION. 


13 


Olive P. Fairchild. 

1800 A Choice of Chance 25 

1802 A Struggle for Love 25 

H. Farley. 

1625 Christmas Stories 25 

B, Li. Farjeou, 

179 Little Make-Believe 25 

573 Love's Harvest 25 

607 Self-Doomed 25 

616 The Sacred Nugget 25 

657 Christmas Angel 25 

907 The Bright Star of Life. 25 

909 The Nine of Hearts 25 

1383 The Mystery of M. Felix. 25 

1518 Gautran 25 

1735 A Very Young Couple. .. 25 

1790 A Secret Inheritance 25 

1791 Basil and Annette 25 

1812 Merry, Merry Boys 25 

1816 The Peril of Richard 

Pardon 25 

1875 A Blood White Rose 25 

1881 Grif 25 

1889 The Duchess of Ros- 

mary Lane 25 

1890 Toilers of Babylon 25 

1947 Ties, Human and Divine. 

Part 1 25 

1947 Ties, Human and Divine. 

Part II 25 

1962 For the Defence. Part I 25 
1962 For the Defence. Part II 25 

1988 Doctor Glennie’s Daugh- 
ter 25 

1989 Aunt Parker 25 

Hon.Mvs.Featlierstonhaugh 

1343 Dream Faces 25 

Heinrich Felbcrinann. 

355 The Princess Dagomar 
of Poland 25 

G. Manville Fenn, 

193 The Rosery Folk 25 

558 Poverty Corner 25 

587 The Parson o’ Dumford. 25 

609 The Dark House 25 

1169 Commodore Junk 25 

1276 The Mynns’ Mystery... 25 

1293 In Jeopardy 25 

1302 The Master of the Cere- 
monies. 25 

1313 Eve at the Wheel 25 

1344 One Maid’s Mischief 25 

1387 Eli’s Children 25 

1680 This Man’s Wife 25 

1694 The Bag of Diamonds... 25 

1743 The Haute Noblesse 25 

1749 Story of Anthony Grace. 25 

1783 Black Blood 25 

1799 Lady Maude’s Mania — 25 


1815 A Double Knot 25 

1824 A Mint of Money 25 

1 936 A Golden Dream 25 

2016 The Golden Magnet 25 

Octave Feuillet. 

66 The Romance of a Poor 

Young Man -. 25 

386 Led Astray ; or. “La 

Petite Comtesse ” 25 

1427 A Marriage in High Life 25 
2023 Divorce; or, The Trials 
and Temptations of a 
Lovely Woman 25 

Gertrude Forde. 

1072 Only a Coral Girl 25 

1349 In the Old Palazzo 25 

R. E. Forrest. 

879 The Touchstone of Peril. 25 
1858 Eight Da3*s 25 

Mrs, Forrester. 

80 June 25 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale 

of Society 25 

484 Although He Was a 
Lord, and Other Tales. 25 
715 I Have Lived and Loved 25 

721 Dolores 25 

724 My Lord and My Ladj\.. 25 

726 My Hero 25 

727 Fair Women 25 

729 Mignon 25 

732 From Olympus to Hades 25 

734 Viva 25 

736 Roy and Viola 25 

740 Rhona 25 

744 Diana Carew; or, For a 

Woman’s Sake 25 

883 Once Again 25 

1637 A Young Man’s Fancy.. 25 

Jessie Fotliergill, 

314 Peril 25 

572 Healey 25 

935 Borderland . 25 

1099 The Lasses of Lever- 
hous6 • 25 

1275 A March in the Ranks. . . 25 

1377 The First Violin 25 

1843 Kith and Kin 25 

1978 From Moor Isles 25 

1999 One of Three 25 

Francesca. 

53 The Story of Ida 25 


R. E. Francillon. 

135 A Great Heiress : A Fort- 
une in Seven Checks. .. 25 
319 Face to Face : A Fact in 


Seven Fables 25 

360 Ropes of Sand 25 


14 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. 


656 The Golden Flood. By 
R. E. Francillon and 

Wm. Senior 25 

911 Golden Bells 25 

1566 A Real Queen 25 

1825 King or Knave? 25 

2003 Under Slieve-Ban 25 

2007 The New Duchess 25 

A. Franklyn. 

1470 Ameline de Bourg 25 

Mrs. Alexander Fraser. 

1351 She Caine Between 25 

1826 The Match of the Season 25 
1928 A Fashionable Marriage 25 


Charlotte French. 

387 The Secret of the Cliffs.. 25 
Li. Virginia French. 

1633 My Roses 25 

J. A. Fronde. 

1180 The Two Chiefs of Dun- 
boy; or, An Irish Ro- 
mance of the Last Cent- 
ury 25 

Lady Georgiana Fullerton. 

1286 Ellen Middleton 25 

Emile Gaboriau, 

7 File No. 113 25 

12 Other People’s Money. . . 25 
20 Within an Inch of His 

Life 25 

26 Monsieur Lecoq 25 

33 The Clique of Gold 25 

38 The Widow Lerouge 25 

43 The Mystery of Orcival. 25 
144 Promises of Marriage... 25 

979 The Count’s Secret 25 

1002 Marriage at a Venture. . 25 
1015 A Thousand Francs Re- 
ward 25 

1045 The 13th Hussars 25 

1078 The Slaves of Paris. — 

. Blackmail. 1st half 25 

1078 The Slaves of Paris. — 
The Champdoce Secret. 


2d half 25 

1083 The Little Old Man of 

the Batignolles 25 

1167 Captain Contanceau 25 


Edward Garrett. 

352 At Any Cost 25 

Mrs. Gaskell. 

938 Cranford 25 

Theophile Gautier. 

1923 Avatar 25 


Henry George. 

1946 The Condition of Labor. 25 

Charles Gibbon. 

64 A Maiden Fair 25 

317 By Mead and Stream 25 

1277 Was Ever Woman in this 

Humor Wooed? 25 

1434 The Golden Shaft 25 

1795 The Dead Heart 25 

1874 Blood Money 25 

1886 Beyond Compare 25 

1913 Amoret 25 

1921 What Would You Do, 

Love? 25 

D. Cecil Gibbs. 

807 If Love Be Love 25 

Tlieo. Gift. 

1300 Lil Lorimer 25 

1435 Dishonored 25 

1844 Pretty Miss Bellew 25 

1994 Victims 25 

2004 Maid Ellice 25 

2027 A Matter-of-fact Girl 25 

Gilbert and Sullivan. 

692 The Mikado, and Other 
Comic Operas 25 

K. Murray Gilchrist. 

1703 Passion the Plaything. . . 25 

Wenmia Gilman. 

1794 Oni 25 

Jda Linn Girard. 

1360 A Dangerous Game 25 

Goethe. 

1043 Faust 25 

Howard J. Goldsiuid. 

1883 Riven Asunder 25 

Oliver Goldsmith. 

801 She Stoops to Conquer, 
and The Good-Natured 

Man 25 

1316 The Vicar of Wakefield.. 25 
Edward Goodman. 

1081 Too Curious 25 

Mrs. Gore. 

1449 The Dean’s Daughter 25 

Barbara Graham. 

532 Arden Court 25 

James Grant. 

566 The Royal Highlanders; 
or. The Black Watch in 

Egypt 25 

781 The Secret Dispatch 25 

1935 Dick Rodney 25 

1950 The Adventures of Rob 
Roy 25 


POCKET EDITION. 


15 


Miss Grant. 

222 The Sun-Maid 25 

555 Cara Roma 25 

Annabel Gray. 

1374 Terribly Tempted 25 

Arnold Gray. 

965 Periwinkle 25 

Maxwell Gray. 

1034 The Silence of Dean Mait- 
land 25 

1182 The Reproach of Annes- 

ley 25 

1839 In the Heart of the 
Storm 25 

Henri Greville. 

1678 Frankley 25 

Cecil Griffith. 

583 Victory Deane 25 

Arthur Griffiths. 

614 No. 99 25 

680 Fast and Loose 25 

2028 Lola 25 

Brothers Grimm. 

1509 Grimm’s Fairy Tales. 

(Illustrated.) 25 

Author of “Guilty Without 
Crime.” 

545 Vida’s Story 25 

Guinevere. 

1805 Little Jewel 25 

Lieutenant J. W. Gunnison. 

1610 History of the Mormons. 25 

F. W. Hacklander. 

1669 Forbidden Fruit 25 

H. Rider Haggard. 

432 The Witch’s Head 25 

753 King Solomon’s Mines . . 25 
910 She: A History of Ad- 
venture 25 

941 Jess 25 

959 Dawn 25 

989 Allan Quatermam 25 

1049 A Tale of Three Lions, 

and On Going Back 25 

1100 Mr. Meeson’s Will 25 

1105 Maiwa’s Revenge 25 

1140 Colonel Quaritch, V. C. . . 25 

1145 My Fellow Laborer 25 

1190 Cleopatra: Being an Ac- 


count of the Fall and 
Vengeance of Har- 
machis, the Royal Egyp- 
tian, as Set Forth by his 
own Hand — 25 


1248 Allan’s Wife 25 

1 335 Beatrice 25 

1635 The World’s Desire. By 
H. Rider Haggard and 

Andrew Lang 25 

1849 Eric Brighteyes 25 

Ludovic Halevy. 

1408 L’Abbe Constantin 25 

George liaise. 

1785 The Weeping Ferry 25 

Thomas Hardy. 

139 The Romantic Advent- 
ures of a Milkmaid 25 

530 A Pair of Blue Eyes 25 

690 Far From the Madding 

Crowd 25 

791 The Mayor of Caster- 

bridge 25 

945 The Trumpet-Major 25 

957 The Woodlanders 25 

1309 Desperate Remedies 25 

1430 Two on a Tower 25 

1973 A Laodicean 25 

1974 The Hand of Ethelberta 25 

1975 The Return of the Native 25 

1976 Under the Greenwood 

Tree 25 

John B. Harwood, 

143 One False, Both Fair.... 25 

358 Within the Clasp 25 

1307 The Lady Egeria 25 

Joseph Hatton. 

1390 Cly tie 25 

1429 By Order of the Czar 25 

1480 Cruel London 25 

1764 The Abbey Murder 25 

1786 The Great World 25 

2008 A Modern Ulysses 25 

Nathaniel Hawthorne. 

1590 Twice-Told Tales. 25 

1592 Grandfather’s Chair 25 

1969 The Scarlet Letter 25 

1970 Legends of the Province 

House 25 

1971 Mosses from an Old 

MansG • 25 

1972 The New Adam and Eve, 

and Other Stories 25 

Mary Cecil Hay. 

65 Back to the Old Home.. 25 
72 Old Myddelton’s Money 25 

196 Hidden Perils 25 

197 For Her Dear Sake 25 

224 The Arundel Motto 25 

281 The Squire’s Legacy — 25 

290 Nora’s Love Test 25 

408 Lester’s Secret 25 

678 Dorothy’s Venture 25 


30 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. 


Charlotte M. Vonge. 

247 The Armourer's Pren- 
tices 25 

275 The Three Brides 25 

535 Henrietta's Wish; or, 

Domineering 25 

563 The Two Sides of the 

Shield 25 

640 Nuttie’s Father 25 

665 The Dove in the Eagle’s 

Nest 25 

666 My Young Alcides: A 

Faded Photograph 25 

730 The Caged Lion 25 

742 Love and Life 25 

783 Chantry House 25 

790 The Chaplet of Pearls; 
or. The White and Black 

Ribaumont 25 

800 Hopes and Fears; or. 
Scenes from the Life of 
a Spinster. 1st half... 25 
800 Hopes and Fears: or. 
Scenes from the Life of 
a Spinster. 2d half...,. 25 
887 A Modern Telemachus.. 25 
1024 Under the Storm; or, 

Steadfast’s Charge 25 

1133 Our New Mistress 25 

1200 Beeclicroft at Rockstone 25 

A. Curtis Yorke. 

1400 The Mystery of Bel- 

grave Square 25 

Ernest Young. 

1682 Barbara’s Rival 25 

1696 A Woman’s Honor 25 

Miscellaneous. 

182 The Millionaire 25 

198 A Husband’s Story 25 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of 


Hesse, Princess of Great 


Britain and Ireland. 
Biographical Sketch 

and Let’ters 25 

285 The Gambler’s Wife 25 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in 
Her True Light. A 

“ Brutal Saxon ” 25 

335 The White Witch 25 

443 The Bachelor of the Al- 
bany 25 

491 Society in London. A 
Foreign Resident 25 


512 The Waters of Hercules. 25 

518 The Hidden Sin 25 

519 James Gordon’s Wife. . . 25 
546 Mrs. Keith’s Crime. A 

Novel 25 

584 Mixed Motives 25 

668 Half-Way. An Anglo- 

French Romance 25 

684 Last Days at Apswich . . 25 
730 The Autobiography of 
Benjamin Franklin 25 

754 How to be Happy Though 

Married. By a Graduate 
in the University of 
Matrimony 25 

755 Margery Daw 25 

774 The Life and Travels of 

Mungo Park 25 

777 The Voyages and Trav- 
els of Sir John Maunde- 

ville, Kt 25 

964 A Struggle for the Right ; 
or. Tracking the Truth. 25 

1186 Guelda 25 

1297 Twenty Novelettes. By 
Twenty Prominent 

Novelists 25 

1438 Margaret a nd Her 

Bridesmaids 25 

1444 Queen of the County 25 

1574 The Arabian Nights’ 

Entertainments 25 

1581 Clayton’s Rangers. A 
Tale of the American 

Revolution 25 

1598 How He Reached the 
White House; or, a Fa- 
mous Victory 25 

1614 Quisisana 25 

1630 The Child-Hunters 25 

1660 T h e Tried and the 

Tempted.. 25 

1671 Long Odds 25 

1685 The Wonderful Advent- 
ures of Phra the Phoeni- 
cian. Retold by Edwin 

Lester Arnold 25 

1755 A Bride from the Bush. . 25 
1916 King Solomon’s Treas- 
ure, By the Author of 

“ He ” 25 

2034 A Chelsea Householder. . 25 

2048 Miss Bayle’s Romance. 

A Story of To-day 25 

2049 Yesterday. An Ameri- 

can Novel 25 


The foregoing works are for sale by all newsderlers, or will be 
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each, by the publisher. Address 

THE SEASIDE LIBRARY, 

GEORGE MUNRO, Publisher, 

(P. O. Box 2781.) 17 to 27 Vandewater St., New York. 


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